


It's the Little Things

by sporklift



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And guaranteed to have at least four more Frozen references than you're comfortable with, Boom! Feelings, Diverges early in season 2, F/M, Fix-It, Post-Series, Reunited and It Feels So Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9140110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: One full year out of Emory, Greg’s two years sober, and keeps on finding himself back in the city he hated all his life.  But it’s not like he even has a goodreasonto keep on coming back. After all, everything major about West Covina is still the same. Only the little things that have changed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I refuse to believe that Rebecca and Greg are done with each other. And I also refuse to let a silly thing like canon change my mind about it. 
> 
> Before we delve into the fic, I’d like to take a moment and shower my glorious beta, **tisohat** , with all the thanks in the world. You were so extraordinarily helpful during this process and I owe this whole fic to you. So, to keep it simple: thank you! Your edits and suggestions made me feel like glitter was exploding inside me.
> 
> Also, I'd like to give a shout-out to _tar-miriel_ over on Tumblr for helping me with planning this story in the early stages and helping me to tap out the story's emotional thesis. 
> 
> And of course, thanks to everyone who was interested enough to open this link to read the story. I won't keep you waiting any longer. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _HE WAS working hard in an office job,_  
>  _making bank when he got the news,_  
>  _Good old bud’s about to get hitched_  
>  _and so he has to go back to_  
>  _West Covina, California, same old shit, unchanged for years._  
>  _This happens to be where dreams die,_
> 
> _oh, dear God, why’s he heeeeere?_
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> 

 

* * *

 

 

Greg hasn’t been to a wedding since Jayma’s. He’s hoping this one will have different results. And, it probably will, considering it couldn’t be any more different in makeup.

Well, okay. The reception’s in a hotel, like Jayma’s was. But the ceremony’s outside. And maybe the decor’s a little “ironic Pinterest board,” but overall, this wedding is the complete opposite of that wedding.

For one thing, Greg is resolute to not be a total dick this time. And, so far, so good. He’s got his _Two Years Sober_ chip secure in his pocket -- a _suit_ pocket, might he add, complete with dress shoes, not sneakers, for one thing. For another thing, it’s different because he’s not used to the scathing California heat anymore. He’s sitting out here, all in black. And he’s sweltering  just because he’s gotten used to the cold northeastern winters. It’s fucking November, and he’s sitting, waiting for the ceremony to start, with a layer of sweat sticking to his back.

But it’s nothing to concern himself with. Considering that sweating is pretty much the worst thing going on in his life right now.

One full year out of Emory, and Greg’s two years sober, has an apartment without any cracks in the walls, and a job with a desk and a dress code that doesn't allow hoodies. Basically, things are looking pretty bad-ass in Greg-Town.

Forget he thought that.

Because that isn’t the point. The _point_ is he’s out there, in the world. He went to three major cities to apply, finally got a job. And, hell, even made it to New York--

State.

But, still. It’s the East Coast, and that’s nothing to sneeze at. Besides, it’s way too expensive to live in the city.

Nevertheless, his current life is nothing to sneeze at. Here he is, living it up in Rochester, in a studio apartment with three windows and neighbors down the hall who like to sing karaoke loudly, and in Korean, at two in the morning. And the strongest stuff in his cupboard is espresso.

Greg from two years ago can go marvel and drool at his life now, thank you very much. And he’d probably jack off to it, but who is Greg of Now to judge Greg of Then?  

Nobody. That’s who. Even if he does judge That Guy. A lot. It’s a habit he’s trying to break. The guys over at A.A say self-forgiveness is what’ll take you from hating your recovery to taking it in stride. They’ve only been wrong once before, and that was a rather heated debate on donut brands that they never actually reached a verdict on. (Irrelevant aside: The bakery on Main St. is a million times better than Dunkin' Donuts, and they all know it.)

Even though Past Greg wants to linger, Present Greg has done a decent job of kicking him to the curb. It’s easy to let old habits die when you’re in a new place. He read a book about that once.

Okay, he _skimmed it,_ but the point’s still valid.

Stuck in his own memory, he runs his fingers along the edge of his chip, trying to be patient as he gnaws at the side of his mouth.

It’s not like he’s _worried_ about old habits coming back. He’s here for an old buddy’s wedding, not to explore how much he’s outgrown West Covina, even if that’s getting more and more obvious with every breath of hot humid air.

Besides, that’s not the point. He should just enjoy the wedding. And he will. Just as soon as it starts.

He got here way too early, so it’ll be a decent wait. Honestly, he’d hoped that something would’ve been different enough about West Covina that he could’ve gotten lost. Anything. A parking structure torn down. A parking structure gone up. A fucking pigeon  nesting in a traffic light. Anything. But, whatever, it just figures. He can sit here and wait.

Honestly, he’d been hoping to spend this time catching up with Josh and Hector. But, as luck would have it, Hector’s in the party, and Josh’s a Master of Ceremony, hanging out by the flowers with a headset on and one hand on his girlfriend’s waist.

Figures.

But that’s fine. Greg can keep himself busy, thank you very much. For example, he can look around.

It’s a pretty sweet setup, actually. The altar in the center, everything streamlined and chic. Metallic white fabric covers the grass and weaves around the altar in the stead of flowers. The chairs are in two large clusters, facing one another, like a stadium. White Josh’s friends on one side, and facing them are Darryl’s. From what it looks like, both grooms will get to walk. Pretty creative compromise.

People start to arrive, and Greg can at least relax knowing he can blend into the sea of black-tie guests. He scans the crowd, wondering firstly, how many people he’d recognize, and secondly, how many new friends WhiJo made since he’s been away.

It’s not until he looks ahead of himself -- directly ahead of himself actually -- that he finds himself staring into a pair of very, _very_ familiar blue eyes.

Bunch, she’s sitting there next to Paula, and Greg doesn’t know why he’s surprised she’s here (she does work with Darryl, after all) but somehow he is.

And he looks at her. And, after approximately 3.4 seconds (or, if you’d like to measure time in Greg’s pulse, 12 heartbeats and counting), she looks back at him. The surprise registers on her face, smacking across gaping lips. And then, like some kind of miracle --

(Miracle? _Seriously?)_

She holds up four fingers in a half-assed pseudo-wave. At the punch in his gut, Greg lets out a small involuntary sound. He doesn’t mean to form words. Honestly. It’s entirely unintentional  the way the sound comes out suspiciously similar to

“ _Oh no.”_

Because, just like that, he can’t stop looking at her.

Just like that, it’s like the past all over again.

He looks at Rebecca and --

_Boom!_

He doesn’t think to wave back. So, he nods instead, trying to ignore the next thought crashing into his skull:

Feelings.

 

* * *

 

 

He spends most of the ceremony trying to _actually_ pay attention to the ceremony. It shouldn’t be that hard, especially since it’s pretty short and sweet. There’s only two people in the bridal party: Madison and Hector, and they walked down the opposite sides of the aisle at the same time. And then White Josh and Darryl. It’s sweet and nice and Greg can’t help but get all fuzzy inside at how big that goofy grin on his friend’s face is and he should be paying better attention.

It’d be _nice._ But he can’t even look up at the altar without seeing Bunch somewhere in his periphery.

Wasn’t he supposed to be over this, like, three years ago?

 

* * *

 

 

 

He runs into Rebecca at the reception as he’s getting another Coke from the bar. The idea of adding rum to it is, even after two years sober, so tempting. It’ll never _not_ be tempting, but he’s since learned how to keep himself from taking a nose-dive into temptation.

Or so he tells himself, as he turns around, stepping straight onto Rebecca’s toes, their chests slamming together.

“Rebecca,” He says, fighting the way his mouth is curling up on itself. “Hi.”

“Greg,” Rebecca says, and Greg can’t help but chuff up at the sound of his name carried on her candor. She narrows her eyes and her voice cracks a bit when she asks, “What’cha got there?”

Greg looks down at his crystal glass, and figuring he knows what she’s implying, he chortles softly, and says, “It’s a Coke. Just Coke.”

Rebecca narrows her eyes, cautious.

“Here, smell it.” Greg says, with pseudo-insult, flat soda sloshing in the glass.

Rebecca’s expression’s bright and clear, and Greg wishes he could be over it by now, and she takes a long breath over the cup, before saying, “You’re in the clear.” She pauses and, with the smile on her face drooping into stoicism, adds, “But seriously. How’s...all that going?”

“But seriously,” Greg amends, pulling the chip out of his pocket. “Two years sober.”

And she’s smiling again. And it’s just as gorgeous as it was three years ago. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Greg nods, looking down at his own feet. Blinking back up to make eye contact with Rebecca, he asks, “So, how have you been?”

“I’ve been great, actually,” Rebecca says, and somehow they start walking the peremiter, around the outskirts of the black ties and pretty shimmery dresses. “I moved to a new apartment a while back, that one place on Fourth Street? And my apartment is right on the corner. Noisy but decent view. It’s a short  drive from Whitefeather.”

“And are you living alone...Or with a boyfriend or something?”  Oh dammit. He doesn’t even know why he’s asking. He’s got no reason _to be_ asking. But for some reason, he asked.

“Living with Heather.” Rebecca says, her expression practically _getting off o_ n the completely innocent question Greg did not mean to come out like it did.

They end up sitting there at the table next to the coat rack, knees bumping into each other. Rebecca speaks with her hands, animated and loud over the music on the dance floor. It’s almost shocking, how much she’s been up to. She’s moved, Whitefeather’s dealt with half a dozen new major cases. She’s animated, retelling hijinks and shenanigans over the years and, ridiculous though it seemed when Greg was in the fray, to hear about it all again is, ultimately, refreshing.

“And, what about you?” Rebecca asks, after she’s done reliving the tale of her and Paula’s most recent voyage into the world of espionage.  

Even though it threatens to veer on the side of boring, Greg delves into the specifics of his job. His office with windows, the details about how he follows the dips and falls of the stock market, and even though he figures Rebecca probably wouldn’t want to listen to all the dreary details, she nods.  

“And, now that you’re living out East, what do you think about New York?” Rebecca presses on when the conversation starts to dwindle.

“Well, I’m hardly in the middle of Manhattan, but it’s still great. Busy and big and, you know what it’s like.”

Rebecca wrinkles her nose, and she’s halfway to a cringe as she says, “Yeah. I remember.”

And, he figures they’ll always be bound to disagree on New York, but it hardly amounts to anything worth arguing over. 

Bottom line. It’s nice to connect again. Even if it’s just for now. Even if it’s surrounded by the illusion of Rebecca’s smile and her voice. Even if he’s doing everything he can think of to remember both the literal and figurative _Danger_ signs cropping up around her all the time. But all he wants to focus on is the way she looks right now, against the lights in the hotel’s ballroom.

 

Before Greg realizes it, it’s past two and the reception’s over. He says goodbye to Hector and Josh and congratulates White Josh and Darryl one more time, and the next thing he knows he’s hitting the pavement with Rebecca beside him.

“So, how long are you in town for?”

“Two weeks. Thought I’d see my dad. Hang with Josh and Hector.”  Greg pauses. Rebecca doesn’t say anything. And it’s...weird.

Like, the Rebecca of three years ago, would’ve suggested they go out and do something by now. Hell, the Greg of three years ago would’ve. But they’re just...making conversation as they trek their way to the parking lot.

They’re at Rebecca’s car and, despite himself, despite the way all the heat flushed from the air after sunset, despite the way he wants to remind himself of how Rebecca kept him reeling the whole time he’d known her, he doesn’t want to stop catching up.

But, before he can suggest anything or even question what dangerous road his brain’s taking him on, he feels Rebecca’s arms around him. He’s pressed up against her chest, and she’s just as warm as she used to be, and her breath is warm on the shell of his ear as she’s saying, “It was nice to see you again, Greg.”

“You too.”

And, as Rebecca steps away and slides into her car, it hurts just as badly as it did that day at the airport.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dad’s living in one of those bougie homes. God, if that doesn’t sound like an oxymoron, Greg doesn’t know what does. And, as he approached the building a little while ago, he found himself wondering how the hell someone like Marco Serrano could be happy at a place like this. It’s the same song and dance every time Greg’s been in to see Dad. He wonders how his dad could be happy at a place with shiny floors and the smell of mothballs, piss, and antiseptic. And that always lasts till he sees his father, snarking like the old days even with the tubes stretching under his nostrils.

“They finally convinced you to wear the tank more,” Greg observes as they walk back to his father’s room, throwing a hearty hand around his father’s back. It’s been months since he’s seen Dad and it’s the biggest change he could’ve fathomed.  

“Yeah, yeah, don’t rub it in,” Dad says, his arms up, undecided whether to pat his son on the back or to brush off his comment. In the end, he opts for a brush-pat. “Sometimes in a place like this, you’ve gotta take the little victories.”

And Greg’s nearly dumbfounded, at least until his dad gestures to a pretty redhead nurse in pastel scrubs and says, “Her name’s Victoire.”

“Not an exact pun there, Dad.”

“I’ve got limited material,” Dad chuckles. His chuckle turns into a cough, and when Greg braces his arm on his father’s back in a blind attempt to help, he’s shaken off.

Same old Dad.

His father regains his composure, and they continue down the hall.  It’s still odd, even all these years later, to see his father in this place, so at home.

It’s not technically an old-folk’s home. It’s more of an assisted living facility. But still. For the first twenty-six years of Greg’s life, his father had been so remiss to accept help, even from him. And now, now that Greg’s pushing thirty-one, he’s not used to seeing his old man wanting to turn any new tricks.

But at least it’s not a stale place. The walls are brightly colored, there’s trees and large shrubs everywhere inside. What’s nice is that the residents have some semblance of autonomy. They can go on day trips as they please, wander around the halls, and can choose whether or not to go to the community functions.  And, most importantly to Dad, they get to have their pets. A fact Greg conveniently forgot till he found himself staring down the very same  macaws who used to shit in his shower.

Damn, he wishes that could be a metaphor. He’s always known that was abnormal, but after years of being away...he finally registers how bizarre that was.

“I see Sinatra’s still kicking.” Greg narrows his eyes. “Torme too.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Dad replies, joke and bite mixed together in his usual candor. “The birds are the whole reason I’m staying here and not at the Hamptons.”

Greg shakes his head, slowly, and with his hands stuffed in his pockets, looks around. His father has a whole apartment to himself. They’re all fairly small, but better than those concrete-boxes at most facilities like this.

But this is nice. He’d hung up the old sign that used to boast about his restaurant, he has a family photo hanging near the window (featuring himself, Greg, and freakin’ Sinatra and freakin’ Torme). Plus a TV of his own, a dining room table, and a rug worn so threadbare it’s a miracle it’s still in tact.

Dad notices the way Greg’s running his shoe along the rug and nods nods, gesturing to it. “I won that from Bertie. He bet on the wrong horse.”

“You’re _gambling?”_

“Gives me somethin’ to do. They don’t let me smoke in here.” Dad says, adjusting his oxygen tank and falling down on the sofa with a satisfied grunt. “Besides, it’s how we bond. Going against the rules and trying not to get caught.”

“I think I had a similar experience in High School,” Greg counters, concern about the gambling belied by the way his father has _finally_ seemed to knock it off with the cigars (if only by necessity).

“People don’t change, dynamics do.” Dad says, offhandedly as he reaches for the remote control. “Put a bunch of people under supervision, they’re gonna act the same.”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

They make it through half an episode of _House of Cards_ before damn Sinatra starts to act up, waving his wings around and crooning at a pitch antithesisizing his namesake. Dad hoists himself up with a little bit of labor, “Dinner time.”

“So, the birds eat before us?” Greg asks, more joking than not. But, still, just a teeny tiny bit, not.

Dad waves him off. “Figured we’d wait till we’re hungry and order something. They have meals you can get delivered from the cafeteria, but who wants to eat dinner at three in the afternoon? That’s basically morning.”

 

Over Pho, Dad asks, “So, how long do you have for your vacation?”

“Two weeks as of yesterday.”

“And you’re spending the whole thing _here?”_

Greg can’t help but grin. “Yeah, that was the plan.”

“And what do you intend to do with the rest of your time here?”

Greg starts to open his mouth, but Dad keeps going.

“You didn’t assume you’d be spending it _here?_ Slumming it with the old farts, did ya?”

Running a hand through his hair, Greg sighs. “Not the whole thing. I’m gonna meet up with Hector and Josh and catch up. Shawna knows I’m out west, so she’ll probably want me to stop by--”

Dad snorts and Greg elects not to comment.

“But, yeah, I thought I’d spend a few days here.”

They’re halfway through watching the next episode, and the nurse named Victoire is in the apartment, taking Dad’s vitals while a burly custodian mops up bird shit with the same grimace Greg remembers painting his own face when he used to step in the shower.

That’s when Dad says, “Greg, do me a favor.”

“What?” He’s only half listening and half watching the dial on the blood pressure cuff whirr around in a circle.

“Don’t see me again till next week. Go out and have some fun.”

“Dad--”

“Just do it. Indulge me. I have every right to replace you in my will with Sinatra.”

Greg  elects to ignore the sweet little look on the nurse’s face, or the pitying shake in the custodian’s head and nods.

Figures that Dad would make this public. _Good move._

 

* * *

 

 

He’s no more than five paces from Shady Acres, freshly banished till next week, when his phone buzzes. He wrestles it out of his pocket only to find he can’t read a single word in the bright California sun. Making his way into his rental car, he mulls through the list of whoever could be texting him. Possibly Josh or Hector, wondering if he was up to hang. Though Josh is probably with his girlfriend, and last he checked Hector was on house-sitting duty till Darryl and White Josh got back from Hawaii.

Greg doesn’t (read: does _not)_ want his mind to jump to the hope idea that it could, maybe, be Rebecca, wanting a do-over from the odd way they’d parted the night before. He clicks his phone on, only to be sorely, sorely disappointed.

 

 

 

 

 

> KEVIN
> 
> (7:03pm)
> 
> Heyyy man! Heard you’re back in West Covina. Would love love love to CATCH up. SWING by before closing!!! :P

 

And, well, Greg can’t think of anything better to do, and so he twists his keys in the ignition and heads to Home Base. It’s almost disappointing, he finds, that the directions, the roads and exits are still deeply ingrained into his muscle memory.

 

* * *

 

 

When he gets to Home Base, a familiar face is standing behind the bar. Heather’s wearing one of her dark hats that makes the colorful streaks she puts in her hair pop. She’s facing away from him to begin with. He wonders if, the second she turns around there’ll be a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. And, Greg stipulates with a brush to his ego, some hint of excitement at and old ex-boyfriend-turned-friend’s return.

Hey, he can hope, right?

On the other hand it could be mild disdain or complete forgetfulness. Who knows? He won’t know the outcome till it happens.

But he doesn’t get to chat with Heather, not right away anyhow, because the next time he blinks he finds himself standing toe-to-toe with his halitosis-ridden former-employer.

“Wow, Greg, didn’t expect you to _swing_ by so soon!”

“You’re really loving those puns, aren’t you?”

Kevin frowns but pushes on. “It’s great to see you. Are you done with school already?”

“For about a year now.”

Kevin’s mouth splits open into that overly cheerful grin of his. “Good for you! I always knew you were destined for better things. So, what’re you doing now?”

“Financial analysis. So, bonds and stocks and stuff.”

“All right!” Kevin grins broadly, proffering his hand up for a high-five. Greg considers not taking it, but lest he be locked into a stalemate of awkward, indulges the man. “Always knew you could do it!”

All Greg can offer is a half hearted, “Thanks.”

Kevin notice Greg’s lack of enthusiasm. “Where are you living now?”

Greg tells him. And maybe he’s extrapolating a bit, on the elitism of Rochester, but if he can’t brag in a place like West Covina, where _can_ he brag?

“And how are you handling the...umm...the,” Kevin lowers his voice to a whisper and Greg can see where this is going from a mile away. Why does it have to turn into this, every time? “ _Alcohol problem.”_

“Sober,” He says, and hopes that’ll end the conversation.

But, knowing Kevin, it won’t.

“Glad to hear it!” Kevin booms and then moves past him to place a handful of napkins into the dispenser. “Look, I’d love to catch up more, but we’re short-staffed tonight and I need to finish filling these napkin holders. Stick around, though, I’d love to hear more about your exciting life in the big city!”

And with that, the bumbling sun-ray of a man, disappears into the stockroom yet again. As far as disturbingly quick conversations go, Greg figures, that was a less-traumatic one. With that under his belt, he strides up to the bar, eyes locked at the back of Heather’s head. She turns and, for a full second, doesn’t let an ounce of recognition mark her face.

He lets himself think a sarcastic _Ouch,_ without giving any mind if there’s an ounce of truth to the thought.

Heather gapes for a moment and then pushes all her weight onto one leg. “I’m not serving you.”

“Don’t wanna be served.”

Heather stares at him, unbelieving. And, okay, he can’t blame her. It _was_ technically a lie. Just because he’s sober doesn’t mean a visceral part of him doesn’t _want_ to bathe in Jack, shower in Smirnoff, power-wash with Absinthe…

 _Anyway._ He shrugs and amends, “Maybe a Sprite?”

“That I can give you,” Heather drawls, slamming down a blue-green can in front of him and shoving the napkin afterwards. She busies herself arranging lemon wedges.  

“So, um, not to be rude or anything,” She begins, “But what are you doing here?”

“White Josh got married.”

“Right, right. Rebecca got that invite in the mail a few months ago.”

Greg stills. Far as he can see, all avenues of conversation point to Bunch, and goddammit, he’s not going to go down this road again. So he paves his own. “I didn’t realize you still worked here. I’ve...uhh...I’ve seen your billboards.”

Potentially more awkward than talking about Rebecca. Maybe. Who the hell knows if it’s more awkward to talk about Rebecca than the fact he’s seen Heather’s face up in lights adorned with the moniker _Miss Douche._

But, it might not be awkward at all. If anything, Heather seems to swell with pride, growing in her shoulders, in a way that’s new. New, but suits Heather in a weird, unironic way.

“Yeah. Well. It keeps me busy and I’m still really, really good at this job.” Heather says. Greg has to remind himself not to suggest otherwise. He never had and he sure as hell isn’t going to start now. Especially when she’s within the position to spit into his soda. Even if it is canned. She goes on, “And now that I’ve graduated, I need stuff to do.”

“You graduated?” Greg winces at himself for sounding so surprised. _Wow, what an asshole._

Heather glares and continues to wipe down the bar. “Yeah. B.S in psychology.”

“Congrats.” Greg says, lifting his can of Sprite in a toast.

“It’s been a year, but the thought’s appreciated.” Heather replies.

He takes another swig of the sugary sweet drink. The atmosphere at Home Base makes him wish it was more bitter, but he shakes off the thought and continues the conversation. “So what do your parents think of all this?”

Probably not the most eloquent way to ask, but hey, Greg figures he’s already batting 0/3, so why the hell not continue down this path?

“They were pretty upset when I moved out, but, you know them, they’re thrilled whenever I do anything.”

Oh yeah. Greg remembers. He’d met them a few times, back when he and Heather were a thing. They were overly hospitable, caring to a fault, and loved the stuffing out of Greg. He had a hunch they were just happy, at the time, that Heather was dating someone with a steady job. (Or so their comments had made it seem.)

He’s been silent for too long, and because he’s not scoring any points as a conversationalist, he barrels on. “So you moved out?”

“Why are you so surprised?” Heather asks, filling a cup with a _little_ too much vodka-to-tonic ratio, and sliding it across the bar to a patron Greg had never seen at Home Base before. “Dude, it’s been three years. Things change. People change.”

“Do they though?” Greg says, skeptical as he raises the can back to his lips.

At the same time, the bell over the door chimes. As if by habit, Greg swings around to see who’s entered.

It’s Valencia.

_What?_

What on earth was Valencia Maria Perez doing at Home freakin’ Base? She’d rarely show up even when she and Josh were a thing, only ever to pick her sister up from softball. But that couldn't be it. A) The softball team wasn’t playing right now. And B) Her sister had to be, what, eighteen (nineteen?) by now.  Certainly old enough to drive herself to and from practice.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts, trying to piece together this enigma, that he barely notices Valencia cross the bar and lean up against it. He barely registers the, ‘Hey babe’ directed at Heather.

But what wrings him out of his own thoughts, is when Heather leans up against the bar, thrusting her stomach to stretch across the wood, to press a kiss to Valencia’s mouth.

That warrants a (too loud for its own good)

“ _What?”_

Valencia jumps. “Oh. Hi, Greg. What are you doing here?”

“WhiJo’s wedding,” Heather answers for him.

“Right.” Valencia says, shaking her head. “How was that? Rebecca doesn’t want to…” She pauses, stops, and looks right at Greg. Her eyes narrow as she lowers her tone at the drop of a pin, “Give details.”

He’s always hated how easy it was to see when Valencia’s wheels were turning. Always. From the ninth grade to now.

As if to cement the idea and ascertain that Greg is _not_ being paranoid, Heather’s mouth widens into a gape. “Oh. Oh, shit. That makes sense.”

Valencia’s sugary grin is a thousand times more saccharine than the soda that sticks to the sides of Greg’s throat. She puts both her hands on her hips and tilts one head to the side. “Did you guys...bump into each other?”

“What’s with the third degree?”

“Just answer.”

“Yeah. We caught up. What’s the big deal?” And when neither Valencia nor Heather respond, just lock eyes with one another in a dangerously conspiratory way, he opts to change the subject. “So, you two and Rebecca are...friends now.”

From Heather: “Yeah.”

From Valencia: “Only for the past three years.”

“Okay,” Greg takes a moment to wrap his mind around that. It’s not hard to see Heather and Rebecca as friends. They already, sort of, were before he left. It’s Valencia that’s hard for him to believe. And then he remembers what he’s just witnessed. “And you two are…”

Together, now: “Dating.”

“Right.”

Heather leans in on the bar, “This is all, like, _really_ old news. Like, ancient.”

Greg keeps his mouth shut. He’s got a few good comebacks weaving themselves into his brain, but he opts not to use them. Probably a defense mechanism, though he doesn't know why he feels the need to defend himself. There should’ve been no need.

Or maybe all the need in the world. He’s always had the nagging suspicion that Valencia knows at least eighty-five ways to kill a man. Heather definitely knows how to hide a body. Together, it’s not an ideal mix for him.

“How don’t you already know this?” Valencia, with a narrow slant to her eyes, turns to face him fully, “Did you unfollow me on Facebook - _again?”_

 

* * *

 

 

Heather and Valencia don’t exactly _ambush_ Rebecca when she comes home, considering they live there and everything, and they just happened to be eating dinner around the time Rebecca kicked the door behind herself.

But it definitely feels like it when Heather puts her glass down and Valencia puts her boxed water down, and they’re staring at her.

“What’s going on?” She asks, noting that they won’t look away from her no matter how much she dodges around the living room.

“Other than you…” Heather begins, blinking as if skimming through a personal thesaurus, “ _Prancing_ around?”

“I’m not prancing. But you’re both staring.” Rebecca says, “Why are you staring? Why...why are you both staring?”

Valencia narrows her eyes and leans forward over the table like she always does before she’s ready to dish something good, “You know, Rebecca, when I went to visit Heather at Home Base, I ran into an old friend of ours.”

And Heather, never one to beat around the bush, interrupts. “It was Greg.”

“And,” Valencia latches on. “He was at the same wedding you refuse to talk about.” Her eyes darken. “So, spill.”

“Nothing to _spill,”_ Rebecca tries to explain as a Bluesy music video starts to project its way into her brain. Something about how she’d cracked the single _code_ and had all the great stuff in life...served a ‘la _mode_?  At least until that silhouette of the _past_ ran into her again and made her heart beat _fast_. But there’s so much on the horizon, she’s got no time for that. She’s independent and just because, theoretically, adding another person into the mix in a couple-y way might contribute to happiness, she knows, by this point, she doesn’t _need_ it.

Um. She lost her tempo. Three, two, one, _shuffle_.

She’s about halfway through the number in her mind, allowing her troubles to manifest themselves on the worried notes and bass. In her mind’s eye, she’s decked out in flapper gear, complete with finger-waves as she stands on a poorly lit stage with Valencia on the drums and Heather on the sax and just as the crowd rises to give their standing ovation, opening up the concert hall to the adoring fans on the street --  

“Rebecca?” Valencia’s voice breaks from the crowd’s applause.

“Yeah. We lost her.”

“No, I’m here.” Rebecca thrusts herself back into the conversation. “Where else would I be?”

“Wherever it is you go,” Heather waves her hand. “We’re just wondering if you’re going to...get all obsessive again.”

“What? No.” Rebecca shakes her head. “Why would I want to?”

This, of course, does absolutely nothing to get her friends to stop looking at her like she’s about to do something ridiculous.

And, okay, it wouldn’t exactly be unprecedented. But it wouldn’t exactly be _fair_ either. Like, she’s put a lot of effort the last three years in things other than obsessing.

Okay, Dr. Akopian might point out that she tends to just trade in her obsessions rather than, like, confronting them and the reasons behind them, but baby steps are still steps. After all, she’s spent the greater part of three years, when she’s not at work, doing stuff with the girl squad, or making an effort to make her and Paula’s interactions a little more 50/50. And, two years ago she added in the Covina Center for Performing Arts.

And not to mention the amount of attention she’d had to focus on cases and work and that one time Whitefeather transferred hands before coming back to Darryl (but that’s a story for another day).

“We lost her again.”

“No, you didn’t.” Rebecca shakes her head, crosses her forearms into an X in front of herself, just as a way of displaying how off her friends are. “I’m not getting _obsessive_. Which, by the way, is a word with some pretty heavy connotations that I could...I’ll explain later. But, anyway, if anything, isn’t my _not_ mentioning it proof that I’m not falling back into the old patterns?”

“Nope,” Valencia says, punctuating the _p_ at the same time Heather says, “Not at all.”

“Oh, _come on._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

Hector’s glad to see him. Glad for some company that isn’t plants or snails, in general, Greg figures.

“I don’t know why Madison didn’t take her snails with her to her mom’s,” Hector says, clearing off the sofa from where he appeared to have been...watching movies beside the creatures. “But, hey, it gives me something to do.”

“Nice to have a break from your mom’s place, huh?” Greg says, shifting to find a comfortable position on the sofa.

He’s busy with the cushions he almost, almost but not quite, misses the perplexed look on his friend’s face. “Dude, I haven’t lived with my mom for two years.”

“You...haven’t?” Greg can’t help but let out a small sigh that’s _just_ shy of self-pitying. He’s definitely batting 0 these days.

“No, man. I’m livin’ large and on my own.  I even have a second job to surfing.”

Greg’s pretty sure his surprise leaked off his face before he could suppress it, and so he figures he might as well inquire. “What’re you doing?”

“House-sitting. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Greg echoes. It’s a relief that amongst all the...bizarre changes in the people he used to know just as well as he knew himself, that at least Hector’s demeanor hasn’t changed.

Because, seriously, a few years ago he would’ve bet anyone he could’ve finished his buddies’ sentences. Now, for all he knew, he'd feed them the line and they’d somehow manage to fuck it up.

_We finish each other’s…_

_Sandwiches._

_..._ Maybe he should just let it go.

After all, it’s not like that much is all that different. Dominoes still takes forever to deliver, Hector still seems to not understand what he’s talking about a solid 98% of the time, except when it comes to surfing. When Greg decides to peruse through social media, there’s still eighty five pictures of Josh with his girlfriend (even if the girlfriend herself has changed).  The delivery guy is still pseudo-friendly and a passive-aggressive sonuvabitch. Hector’s still good for a few great laughs.

And, it’s nice to know that, after watching the surfing tournament on TiVo,  low-stakes poker for who’s paying for the next pizza, is just as fun sober as it is hammered.

 

* * *

 

 

Even compared to Rochester, West Covina still has an incredibly...small feel. Even though Greg’s leaving soon, within two weeks, it still has that overwhelming smoggy overture of…

Suffocation.

But he’s got eight days left so, he might as well deal with it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He figures his dad didn’t mean it when he asked him to stay away for a while. Besides, it’s not like he had a real compelling argument to keep Greg away from the home. He had a limited amount of time on the West Coast, and goddammit, he’d spend his time there with his father.

Especially since…

Well, let’s just say that even if Greg isn’t his father’s primary caretaker anymore, he does still pay attention to his test results. And even if the dramatic decrease of tobacco and alcohol was helping, it’s not something that ever promotes optimism. Ever.

So, he makes his way back to his father’s place. Sinatra squawks in alert. Greg chuckles as the sound crops up an old memory of him, at five years old, asking if they could get a guard dog - detailing to his father how much he _needed_ a rottweiler, only to have his dad say, “What’d you need a dog for? The birds do the same job.”

(If Greg recalls right, they almost got one a few years later. But the restaurant needed major repairs after an earthquake, and they never revisited the idea. They got their cat instead.)

He waits a few minutes at the door, to the sole reception of Sinatra and Torme’s grating squawks, and then realizes that his father must not be in. Well. There’s an idea. He supposed he’d rather his dad have shit to do opposed to sitting around and watching TV all day, like he used to but...it makes Greg feel...

Bad.

Like, obviously he never had all the fancy resources, but goddamn, didn’t he do a good enough job?

“Excuse me sir,” A young voice rings behind him. “Can I help you?”

He swings around to see the pretty redheaded nurse, Victoire, looking at him with an overly friendly, overly invested look, and a clipboard digging into her side.

...didn’t that _hurt?_

He hopes he didn’t take too long to respond and thus come off like a total idiot. “Uh, yeah,” He says, “I stopped in to surprise my dad. Marco Serrano?”

A flash of acknowledgement hits the nurse’s eyes and she nods. “Ah. So _you’re_ Marco’s son. He talks about you. A lot.”

“Oh no.”

“Good things, all around. Mostly. He checked out a little while ago. If you wanna wait in the lobby you can catch him when he comes back.”

“I’ll swing by later.” Greg says, considering his phone is going to die within the hour and, knowing Dad, he could be out all day. “Thanks, though.”

 

* * *

 

 

Day five in West Covina and Greg’s getting used to his hotel room. It’s hard not to; he’d rented a room in this hotel for his senior prom and West Covina seemed to view construction like the Black Plague or something. Everything looks the same, so it’s easy to let memory stand in for comfort.

He starts to shoot emails off his phone to his colleagues, trying to re-enter the workplace from afar. It’s fun and all to see his old buddies again, and there’s a part of him that wants to ambush his father to make sure he’s not doing anything stupid over at Shady Acres. But he’s only got a few more days till he can visit Dad again. So, he might as well put on his Big Boy Pants and deal.

After having a ten-minute debate with himself on whether or not to actually open the mini-bar and charge himself through the ceiling on fancy peanuts, he figures it’s time for a true West Covina Aventure: going to the freakin’ corner store.

It’s almost sad, he thinks to himself as the automatic doors of Country Market slide open to reveal the same poofy-haired clerk as all those years before.  Marty, was his name, right? The guy with the glorious hair who’d pined over that girl-clerk and dusted potatoes. And, here he is now, three years later, still dusting potatoes.

All Greg can think as he slides into an aisle, focusing on the wall of chips in front of him,  is thank goodness he got out in time before that became him.

Of course, that’s before the sonuvagun notices him on his own. “Hey,” He says, “It’s you. Long time no see, _Coach!”_

Greg turns slowly, not wanting to engage in conversation, although he can’t help but grin at the way the clerk seems to shrink.

“Wait. Are we not friendly anymore? I was never actually clear on your rules.”

“It’s all good, man,” Greg says. Might as well. He’ll probably never see this guy again. What are the chances he’ll have to go back to the Country Market in West Covina, anyway? He turns to make eye contact, but finds the glinting on the clerk’s name tag more than a little distracting.

For a second, he can’t read it from the glare. But then it comes into focus:

 

**MARTY**

_STORE MANAGER / POTATO DUSTER_

 

Thinking he probably hallucinated the first part of the tag, Greg opts to comment on the second. “You’re an official _potato duster_?”

“We have the least dusty potatoes in the San Gabriel valley!” Marty boasts, and Greg doesn’t think this is worth boasting about, but who is he to be a pensive, deep raincloud on the guy’s parade? Marty continues: “Choosing my own titles is one of the perks of managing the store.”

 _Wait...seriously?_ Greg can feel his brows drop down on his face as he re-examines the nametag. Surely enough, it still reads: _STORE MANAGER / POTATO DUSTER._

Perhaps seeing the shock in Greg’s face, Marty goes crimson, and coughs. “Y’know, once you apply yourself  and deal with your decisions…you get somewhere.”

“Apparently.”

Marty pauses. Still unsure how to proceed. Then he says, “It’s a pretty good gig. I started using the stuff I learned at Harvard when it comes to numbers and business and stuff and it just...came together.”

There’s nothing Greg can say. He’s surprised but there’s something tactless and, frankly, instigating about the comment when all he wants to do is stock up on chips so he doesn’t spend half his paycheck on fancily wrapped nuts at the hotel. So, he opts for the short, sweet, and to the point. “Glad to hear it, man.”

By now he’s practically got his entire basket full of chips and crackers, and he figures he might as well swing by the freezers and get something a little kinder on his intestines.  He gives an awkward goodbye to Marty and shuffles over to produce.

And, yeah, on his way, he picks up some Toblerone and Coke because it’s there and he’s still got another week in California. There’s nothing else interesting in the remaining aisles, and so he cuts through the Delicatessen.

And that was probably not his wisest decision.

Because, what would you know, of course he’d run into Rebecca again. She’s facing the counter piecing together a dozen donuts for a mix. Rebecca’s voice sounds just a bit scratchy, like she’s been staying up late. Or she sounds like she used to sound after late nights, at least.

And it’s possible that Greg has the worst timing in the world, because Rebecca just happens to look over her shoulder as he’s staring.

_Good going, Serrano._

“Greg! Hi.” She says. It’s stupid how nice her voice sounds. Incredibly stupid. “What’re you doing here?”

“Getting some groceries. I’m here for another week or so.” Greg replies. “How about you?”

“Just getting the supplies for a long night of studying.”

As Rebecca takes another step towards him, it occurs to Greg he hasn’t greeted her. It’d seem weird to do it now, so it’s probably best to drop it. Instead, he asks, “Studying?”

“Paula’s getting ready to take the bar.”

“Wow, that’s impressive.” Greg can’t stop it from hurling out of his mouth. “Good for her.”

Rebecca offers a big shrug, “We’re having a good old fashioned all-nighter study sesh. Just me and Paula...and her friend Sunil.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a full night ahead of you.”

Rebecca exhales slowly, “Oh, that we do.” She pauses, and punctuates each word. “That. We. Do.”

Greg can feel his knees hit the inside of his jeans. He wants to walk. There’s the urge, the impulse, to get away. But it’s not seconded by his head. His head, on the other...hand, wants him to ask: “You don’t seem…”

“Super excited?”

Greg can feel something hit against the insides of his ribs. It’s this funny, warm feeling.  

Rebecca continues: “I lost the coin toss.” She nods, apparently responding to whatever kind of face Greg’s making against his own will. “Yeah. It was study for an extra weekend or have some epic hijinks.”

“Y’know from what I remember, the hijinks never seem to stop with you.”

“Oh har har.” Rebecca flashes a face at him, and he can’t help but look down at his own toes and laugh.

He’s forgotten, after all this time, how Rebecca can make him laugh from that deep place in his belly, or how she could make him fixate on the way their toes were pointed to each other while they stand in opposition. “I’ll have you know I’ve had a very productive few years.”

“Doesn’t mean the hijinks stopped.”

“Well then,” Rebecca says, grin growing by the second. “In that case it’s just a testament to my amazing ability to both hijink and get down to business.”

“Interesting verb choice there.”

“Uh-huh,” Rebecca says, drawing this big over-exaggerated goofy expression. “I can verb with the best of ‘em.”

“I’d believe it.”

And just then, as if to be the ultimate killjoy or all killjoys, Rebecca’s phone goes off. She looks at it for a beat, and then back up to Greg, “Looks like it’s time to hit the books. It was great catching up with you again, Greg.”

And maybe it’s the way that Rebecca says his name, but Greg, somewhat desperately, wants her to do the Rebecca Thing. He wants her to turn around and say, “ _Hey, when are you going back East? Can I--I dunno, get you a coffee or something before you go?”_ The thing she’d done ever since he was first going to go back to school four years ago.

But, she doesn’t. And it doesn’t occur to Greg that he could be the one to initiate until she disappears out the door. Oh well. He’s learned a long time ago that it’s dangerous to get exactly what you want, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Because it’s November, it’s not that impressive that Greg woke to the sunrise. It’s, like, seven in the morning, and the sun is just starting to peek up over the horizon. There aren’t a lot of buildings in the way, even if the smog tints the colors a smidge.  Nevertheless, everything’s bright orange and pink and it’s like some kind of millennial’s senior art project, but it’s still kinda…

Well, he resolves, sunrises have always been one thing California’s good at.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the beginning of his second week before Greg gets a chance to get some one-on-one with Chan.  Anna’s leaving their place just as Greg’s arriving, and not that he wants to get all sentimental about it, but it’s a nice gesture, even if it’s unintentional.

He’s been best friends with Josh since kindergarten, but he could probably count the times Josh opted to hang out with him over a hot girl on one hand. (To be fair, he could count the times he opted to hang out with Josh over a hot girl on one hand too, so at least they’re even.) But even if the sentiment is unintentional, it’s nice.

"Hey man," Josh says upon answering the door, goofy grin and all his Channess just oozing off him.

"Hey," Greg nods and enters the apartment.

It's small, definitely smaller than the apartment Josh had with Valencia, but definitely more him. He's got mismatched furniture, that Greg only noticed was mismatched because there was that chair that they used to play pirate ship on when they were five. It’s half-broken and still covered in dust. Noting it, Greg wants to put a hand on it, but for fear of breaking the damn thing, he settles for a haphazard gesture. "Did you fish that out of your parents' basement?"

"Sure did," Josh says, flopping down on an oversized beanbag chair. “Mom reorganized the house when Jastinity went to college and I got some awesome stuff when I moved out. Chairs. This great rug. A _ton_ of Tupperware.”

Greg nods but it isn’t until Josh assures him that the chair isn’t going to break underneath his weight (his incredibly manly weight) that Greg hazards to sit. The cushion gives under him, but is, for the most part, stable.

Josh then gestures at the scuffed-up coffee table in front of them. “Oh yeah! Also, I picked this out. And put it together in less than a night, too.”

It’s not a bad table; it’s actually pretty nice.  Greg puts one hand on the faux-wood. “You and your tables,” he says by way of compliment.  

“We got it at this cool local store back in West Covina.”

Greg pauses. It seems like good a time as any to ask the question in his mind since Josh sent him an address nearer Los Angeles than West Covina.   

“Speaking of,” Greg says. “How are you liking being out?”

Josh frowns and looks down into his hands. “I mean, I miss a lot of it. The people, the hominess. But I’m still at Aloha so I’m in town every day.”

“That’s a...decent commute.”

Josh just shrugs. “I’ve got a wicked to and from work playlist. All the classics to sing along to. It goes fast.”

“Hey, if that makes it worth it to you.”

“Well...” Josh says, turning towards Greg and, oh jeez, he can tell something long is coming. “Mostly? I love Anna and I don't mind driving every day, especially since we picked a place halfway from both our works, but...y'know. I miss home.”  

Greg doesn't really know. Even though a part of him might get the gist. So, he nods because he knows the kind of problems his friend had near cities before.  Crowds and the nice bite tall buildings and unfriendly faces give people on principle. The kind of stuff Josh wouldn't touch with a ten- foot pole.

Josh continues: “Like the people and the activities and the boba stands…oh, yeah, that reminds me!” Josh rattles off, practically diving towards the refrigerator.

It's funny. Greg had forgotten how Josh always moved like a bee on Red Bull. His friend opens the white box and pulls out two plastic boba cups. Classic Chan.

Nevertheless, Greg accepts the boba and returns to fixating on the chair. “Kind of shocking you were willing to move at all.”

“I guess that’s what happens when you find your…” Josh considers and can’t seem to find the right word, so he shrugs it off. “Anna listens and she’s willing to take things slow and doesn’t...jump around. We can compromise. And that helps.”

Josh slurps up his tea and chews on the tapioca. "But anyway, the table's really great for game night."

"Yeah?" Greg nods. "You host game night now?"

"We went to Home Base for a while but...weird people started hanging there."

There's a tiny part of Greg that wants to inquire, but a bigger part of him tells him to just...not. So he gnaws on the tapioca balls and tries not to think about the sensation. God, it's been awhile.

He must've shuddered visibly, because Josh quirks his head over at Greg. "Can't hold down your boba?”  

Greg throws a pillow at him, and they slip into their casual, friendly silence for a minute, flick on a few different games and shout through various pitches and field goals, and...whatever it's called in lacrosse.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg nearly busts his rental car in the pothole on East Cameron they haven’t fixed in years. Because, as it turns out, everything _does_ have to be on East Cameron. Including potholes.

Go figure.  

 

* * *

 

This is, seriously, the last time Greg is going to listen to his father when he asks him to go and live his own life. Dammit, half the point Greg elected to spend his entire vacation in West Covina was to spend some time with his father.

And now...because he’d been dumb and listened to the man, he spent less time than he’d originally intended at Shady Acres in the first place. And now, on the very last day, he doesn’t get to see him at all.

“It’s just a cold,” The nurse says, “He’ll be fine, but his immune system can’t be compromised.”

“Do you have any idea how many colds I got him through?” Greg says, impatient, “I can’t even count them on all my fingers.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Serrano.” The nurse says, unwilling to budge, “It’s the building policy. Even if he was fine, one of you might carry something to one of the less strong patients. Why don’t you come back when he’s feeling better?”

“My flight back to New York’s _tomorrow.”_

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I still can’t let you in.”

And Greg doesn’t want to admit defeat, but there’s not much he can do about it, with a wall of nurses and orderlies completely unwilling to let him so much as peek his head in.

Instead, he leaves a note.

  

 

 

 

 

> _Dad,_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _They wouldn’t let me see you. I’m sure you want to give ‘em hell for keeping you locked in your room, but just know I tried to bail you out. I’ll come back to visit soon. Promise._
> 
>  
> 
> _Greg_
> 
>  

 

* * *

 

 

He has a layover in Chicago, spends it with overpriced soft pretzels and some free novel on his Kindle Fire while the winter rages outside. He was going to go out to get a decent meal during his four hours between flights, but one step out into the icy air had him running back inside.

It seems like he’d re-acclimated to California weather. Lucky him.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s nice to be back in his own apartment. None of that horribly-patterned hotel carpet, or prison-cot like mattresses. It’s nice to be under his own covers again, with his own TV, with the bustling city that promises _More_ outside on the streets.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I miss you, yes_  
>  _But I’ll confess_  
>  _The thought of leaving is still enticing_   
>  _‘Cause when you speak, my mind gets weak_  
>  _It’s like I don’t care what I’m sacrificing_  
>     
>  _So let’s sit down,_  
>  _for what happens now_  
>  _And darling, let’s not tiptoe._    
>  _We can’t unpack, we can’t go back,_  
>  _To say it wasn’t a shitshow._

* * *

 

The fact that Greg’s back in California, a few months after his last trip,  doesn’t mean _anything_ important _._  All it means is he’s  got a long weekend, and since he didn’t get to see his dad as much the last time he was in town, it’s perfectly excusable.

Besides, even if he is spending an annoying amount of time cramming his way through terminals of overly-sleepy people with overstuffed carry-ons, at least he’s getting in those flying miles.He’ll be getting a discounted room in no time! Granted, it’d probably be at a Best Western but... _nuance, Greg. Nuance._

He hasn’t even left the terminal at LAX when his phone rings. It’s a bit of a struggle to whip it out of his pocket, since he doesn’t carry it on a clip on his belt like the other guys in his office do. Say what you like about professional, there’s no way he’s old enough to holster his phone like he’s freakin’ John Wayne.

Caller I.D tells him it’s his boss’s sister, Anya. And, okay, he’s got to sigh a little bit. He is technically supposed to be on vacation, after all. “Hello?”

It feels weird to hear Anya’s voice without the pressure of a tie around his neck. Just... weird.

“Hey, Greg!” Her voice chirps out happily. “Sorry to bother you on your vacation, but Elsie and I just wanted to make sure that you and Jon still had that PowerPoint ready to go for Tuesday.”

“We finished it yesterday.” Greg says. Part of him wants to ask why she doesn’t just ask Jon. It’s a rather large office secret that Anya and Jon are sleeping together. It’s also a secret that absolutely everybody knows about. Even Sven, Jon and Greg’s floor supervisor.

Greg figures they’re saving face. He can’t blame them.

“Great,” Anya says, voice carrying the same sweet-tart punch of lemonade. “So, we’ll all see you guys Tuesday for your big presentation! Have a good weekend. Say hi to your dad for me!”

And, Greg knows he hasn’t told either Anya or Elsie about his trip. He has, however, told Jon over small talk at the water cooler…

(Minor, irrelevant aside: Greg actually works at a place with a water cooler. No matter how mundane, that’s pretty cool.)

But, hey, he already knew that basically anything he said to Jon would get passed on via pillow talk. The guy’s a bit of a chatter box.

Greg gives Anya a farewell, pockets his phone again, and sheds an extra layer to make his way back into the hot California sun. It’s February, it shouldn’t be this hot. But, here he is. Sweltering.

He shoulders his carry-on as he makes his way to the car rentals.

 

* * *

 

 

This time, when he re-enters the Cove, he takes about an hour to look around. There’s still that same graffiti splatter on the side of the building that’s been there since Greg was ten.  

The same family of cats sleeps in the window of the New Age bookstore that always has. He’s certain that window has seen at least four generations, birth to death, of those fluffy white felines.

The same guy’s running for mayor who’s done it for the past decade, or at least someone in his family. Ahh, yes. The nepotism is strong in this town.

Hey, West Covina; never change.

 

* * *

 

 

Dad’s pretty damn enthusiastic to see Greg when he shows up on the outskirts of the residents’ lounge.

“What the hell are you doing back here?”

Greg shakes his head and falls into the sagging armchair next to his father. His knee hits the oxygen tank. “Thanks, _Son,_ for taking your long weekend to spend it out here with me.”

“What ever happened to living your own life?” Dad coughs. “I’ve told you over and over again I’m a lost cause.”

“And I’m an adult with a salary and I’ll spend my vacations how I want to spend them, Old Man.”

Dad waves his hand to dismiss Greg. But Greg’s got a feeling his dad does appreciate it. Something in the crow’s feet framing his eyes.  Something Greg just knows about him.

“I always figured you’d wanna travel on your vacations.”

“It’s cold.”

“Then I figured  you’d go to Australia.”

“Maybe next year.” Greg mutters, turning to face the TV in the lounge.

He hadn’t expected a _Planet Earth_ special to be on. It might’ve been a stereotypical thought but he’d figured it’d be _Wheel of Fortune_ or _Chopped_ or something.

“Dad,” Greg says for a moment, after watching jellyfish ooze their way across the screen. “Can I...ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you actually...okay with living here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Dad throws up his hands in either direction, garnering groggy attention from the other patrons watching TV or playing checkers. “I can come and go when I want. My food gets made for me. I get all the hot dates I want. I’m training the macaws to turn lights on and off and I don’t get any mouth from you about it.”

“That wasn’t my question, though.”

Dad sighs, long and hard. “Oh, what’re you trying to get me to say?”

“Something honest,” Greg proffers, shrugging in a way that might just be a little exaggerated.

“Yes. I like living here. Now stop with the third degree before you give me heartburn or something.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s kind of a bummer, that Greg missed the Taco Festival this year...and the year before that...and the year before that.

The point is, he’s sorely in need of a good West Covina taco. And a heaping helping of that good, granny-made guac. And so, from Shady Acres, he walks right over, thinking of the spicy meat and cascade of cheese and sour cream. As he walks to his longtime favorite kiosk, he’s thinking about all the toppings. Lettuce and tomato and…

_Bunch?_

Oh no.

Figures he’d run into her. Again. Sure, West Covina’s small by his new standards. But it’s still got a population of 100,000. What in the hell are the odds that he’d keep on running into Rebecca Bunch?

Against his better judgement, he approaches.  (Because, face it, he’s not going to let this taco slip through his fingers. He’s got 48 hours to take in as many good tacos as he can, and goddammit, he’s going to.) There’s a small part of him, a juvenile silly part, that wants to claim this particular taco stand as his. Bunch should get her own.

Except, he has to remind himself, he doesn’t actually live anywhere near this taco stand anymore. There’s no way seventh-grade style claim to a kiosk would hold any water. That’s just _stupid._

So, he approaches and gets behind Rebecca in line. She seems to sense him in her periphery and turns around. The light in her eyes doesn’t exactly appear as they made contact, it’s always there, but it definitely seems  to focus as they did.  

And, thank God, Greg’s over this. Over the way she smiles and over the way her voice could make him melt into a little hoodie-wearing puddle. Over the way her curly hair frames her face and the way her eyes redefine the color blue. Over it. Over this whole _thing_ 110%. Most definitely. He’s. Over. This.

“Hey,” She says.

Nope. Definitely not over this.  

“You’re back.”

“Just for the weekend. Visiting my Dad.”

Rebecca nods knowingly, the curls on her head bouncing as she does. “Good of you to come back so often to see him.”

“Well, I haven’t been back in almost a year. So.”

Her eyes go a little darker, her mouth screws down into the corners of her face, even as she steps one customer closer to Taco Nirvana, and she turns to face him fully. Their toes are pointed towards one another. “So how is he? Your dad?”

“Great,” Greg says, way too quickly and in a way that’s not even close to convincing.

“Greg.” Rebecca says. Her eyes are boring holes into him.

Wringing a hand behind his neck, Greg does his best to give a picture of nonchalance in his tone. “It’s progressing. More slowly than before, though. The nurses managed to get rid of all his cigars and booze every time he tries to bring them into his apartment. But. He’s done enough damage.”

Rebecca reaches out and places a hand on Greg’s arm. It’s warm. She squeezes and nods. “I’m sorry.”

Greg does his best to shrug off the sympathy, but it’s Rebecca’s turn to order so she turns to the kiosk. From there, Greg honestly expects to part ways. She’d always been so hot and cold, and the last few times he’d seen her, even after the wedding, she always seemed so...busy.

And that’s when she turns around and does her Bunch thing.

“Let me buy your taco. I never got you a going away present all those years ago.”

Honestly? Greg’s a little gobsmacked. Considering the terms they’d parted on, three years ago. With Rebecca rushing into the airport to try to convince him to stay in town. Greg having to pull away with all the force to counteract her natural magnet, and finally face the facts that they didn’t have any kind of trust or stability.

He never would’ve expected this...bizarre form of gratitude from Rebecca. He’s so stunned he lets her pay for his taco, and before they know it, they’re strolling through the freakin’ park like something about this is normal.  Greg chews, slowly, on his hard-shell, taking in the strange combination of spices. They must be trying out a new recipe.

Another surprise comes a few seconds later: it’s Greg who breaks the silence.

“So, this is you _thanking_ me for…?” He doesn’t want to finish the sentence. He doesn’t even  know what he wanted to say next: _abandoning you at the airport, leaving for greener pastures, breaking up with you._ Any way you slice it, probably not the best way to keep a conversation going.

Which, he realizes with a rather poignant punch to his gut, he wants to do.

Rebecca’s biting into her taco and has to cover her mouth as she snorts. She chews and swallows and turns towards him. “Well, you know, Greg, you broke my heart. Again. But, in a weird way, it ended up being a wake-up call.”

“How so?”

Rebecca brightens, “Oh, you know. _All_ the cliches. I got to see myself single and alone and realize I can be okay. Better than okay. I can be happy on my own.”

“Pretty long cliche, not sure it’ll catch on.”

Narrowing her eyes, Rebecca retorts. “I got to find out I’m the cat’s pajamas.”

They spend a pace, or five, silently grinning and suppressing their chortles, but then Rebecca goes on.

“Seriously, though. I got to focus on me. And on my other relationships. My friendship with Paula is way better, same with Heather and V...oh yeah, I’m friends with Valencia now.”

“I gathered.”

Rebecca’s eyes shimmer but she doesn’t ask. “I’m happy at work. I’m doing community theater. I’ve got my girl crew. Things are...they’re good.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Greg says. He wants to look at something other than what’s ahead of him, or his taco. Namely, he wants to look at Rebecca. But she sounds so content and happy and so...yeah, just _content,_ he’s afraid that all his delusions about her would come screeching back if he so much as attempts to look her in the eye. “So, community theater, huh?”

Rebecca nods. “We just did _Guys and Dolls.”_ She puffs up a little; Greg can’t help but smile at it as she continues, “I was Adelaide’s understudy.”

“The understudy? Wow, what an accomplishment.”

“Hey, it’s been two years of chorus parts. I _do_ feel accomplished, thank you very much.”

“Sorry. I’m kidding.” Greg amends. “I remember you said you liked theater.”

“Everybody needs a hobby,” Rebecca says, finishing off her taco and tossing the paper into the nearest trash-bin. “Speaking of, what are yours these days?”

“My hobbies?” He hasn’t had a hobby since he got sober. So, he shrugs. “I mean, I work. I watch TV. I run with a coworker of mine, so. There’s that.”

“Running? Seriously?”

“Hey, what’s that you said, ‘everybody needs a hobby’?”

Rebecca elbows him. It’s soft and unassuming and friendly. This time, he manages to look at her. There’s a tiny piece of lettuce stuck in her hair. Part of him wants to remove it. Another part knows he shouldn’t.

And, as it is, he leaves it be, and lets her stretch her arms out in front of her and a stupidly gorgeous haphazard way as she mutters, “Touché, Serrano. Touché.”

 

* * *

 

 

They re-add each other on Words with Friends by Sunday night. They haven’t seen each other since the park, bellies full of taco and guac. And Greg can’t focus on playing, since he’s busy watching TV with his father.

Rebecca plays “ _Ironic_ ” and the only thing Greg can counter it with is “ _Quixot_ ,” even though that seems, vastly - vastly more like a word Rebecca would play.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s at work the next time Rebecca sends him a word.

_Cyclical._

He counters with: _Ardor._

 

* * *

 

 

It's a long few weeks of paperwork before he hears anything close to official about it. And it's not even that official when he hears it. Jon shows up at his desk with a Cheshire grin and says something that sounds an awful lot like "I know something you don't know."

To which Greg replies, between punches in his calculator, "And what's that?"

"We're a leading team. And that could, just _MAYBE_ , get both of us somewhere. Soon."

And Greg chalks it up to something Jon and Anya discussed over pillow talk and tries not to think much more about it.

But, y'know, it's hard not to think about it. He works hard, dammit, and in the ever-changing environment of the East Coast, it's nice to know that some of the changes are turning up in his favor.

 

* * *

 

 

Serrano: _Cerebral._

Bunch: _Celestial_.

 

* * *

 

 

Let it be known, for the record, Greg is mostly doing this for the frequent flyer miles. And, to be fair, he isn’t even going to West Covina this time. He’s staying in L.A. In a nice hotel room he got a nice discount on. One of the perks of going to hotels on business It’s not like he keeps on finding himself back in California like there’s something he _likes_ about it.

Most of the time he’s visiting his dad, and this time it’s completely for business. It’s never like he’s left his side of the mountains (Appalachian or Rocky, it doesn’t matter) on his own accord, ever.

…

He doesn’t appreciate this third degree. He’s got his reasons, dammit, and none of them have to do with _wanting_ to be in California, so just lay off.

The first night in L.A, he tags along with Anya and Jon to some kind of hipster sushi bar. It’s the kind of stuff Greg’s seen his whole life, but the other two seem to get a kick out of it. They also make a huge display over _not_ going to the same room at the end of the night. If Greg didn’t think his job depended on keeping his nose down, he might’ve told them to just can the act.

 

* * *

 

The legal stuff is...well, it’s pretty much Greek to Greg. It’s all about the expansion. And he tries to focus and learn what he can, considering he’ll (hopefully) be in the fray when the plans turn into reality. It’s just that he’s so unfamiliar with the legal terms. And it’s all phrased so boringly, he might as well just fall asleep.

But, he tries to be a good employee. He listens as their L.A lawyer goes over the semantics. Judging by the way Elsie nods in her own Elsie way, stoic and cold as all hell, Greg thinks that, yes, it’s going well.

Or at least until their lawyer says, “Everything looks to be in order. _Except_ for the L.A branch.”

That’s enough to get their collective attention.

“What do you mean?” Elsie asks.

Greg clicks his pen open, ready to scribble notes for whatever brainstorm assignment Elsie and Anya are about to throw at him and Jon.

“There’s another firm that’s challenging our zoning. They want to build a hotel.”

Anya frowns. “Do we have a case against that?”

Their lawyer nods, curtly. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Chances are we’ll settle. They aren’t a very wealthy firm, I’m sure we can buy ‘em off.”

Greg’s phone buzzes in his pocket as he finishes his notes, and he has a feeling he knows what it is.

 

And, he’s right. No sooner has he stepped of the lovely air-conditioned office, than he clicks his phone on to see Rebecca played a new word: _Saudade._

 

* * *

 

 

Because he’s back in L.A for a visit, he finds himself visiting Josh and Anna after that first night, lest he traipse around after Anya and Jon again, between restaurants that were really nothing special.

Josh grins. Anna steps aside so that Josh and Greg can engage in a hearty hand-clasp that is definitely not a hug, “Back again.”

“Y’know, everybody’s saying that, but it’s one-hundred percent for work. So.”

“Yeah, but,” Josh says, throwing up a large haphazard shrug. “Doesn’t mean I’m not glad to see you again!”

“No. I guess not.” Greg can’t help but throw a face at that. He doesn’t have a mirror, so he’s not sure the exact face he’s making. It probably ranges somewhere between amusement and a grimace. Maybe like a seasick Jerry Seinfeld getting a kick out of his own jokes.

That’s when Anna pops in. “Hey, Greg. Nice to see you again.”

“Nice  to see you too.”

They aren’t friends, him and Anna, so there’s this awkward moment that hinges on the air with how they should greet each other. A handshake’s too formal, and neither one of them have that air of extreme friendliness Josh has that’d make them comfortable just going in for the hug, so they settle for waves that verge on the haphazard.

They linger in the doorway, the three of them for half a beat. There’s a flash of silence to fill the spaces. Greg considers apologizing for not bringing anything; he’d thought about getting a bottle of wine for the other two, but he doesn’t trust himself in liquor stores anymore. But saying that just seems...like he’s fishing for attention.

Thankfully, Greg doesn’t have to break it, because Anna does. “Well, let’s head in. Dinner should be here soon.”

The couch is a little too squishy and soft to actually be comfortable. Emotionally comfortable. It’s super comfortable on the physical front. It’s a bizarre sensation. Probably because it’s a foam-filled-eight-foot-long-beanbag chair. It’s swallowing Greg whole, but it’s doing wonders for his back.

Not that he’s old enough to have back problems. He’s thirty, for Chrissakes, not eighty-five. But, either way, it’s got some nice lumbar support.

He and Josh already exhausted most of their catching up at the wedding and last time he was over here. But it’s nice to be back in the thrall of small-talk and they break out the playing cards and poker chips.

“If you’re here through the whole weekend, Aloha’s is having this great sale on cables.”

“How’d you _know_ I needed  a good cable?”

“I feel like you’re being sarcastic,” Josh says with a cartoonish frown, “But you never know. You’re doing businessy stuff. Maybe you forgot an HDMI cord or something.”

“I fold.” Greg puts his cards down.

Anna pouts and looks somewhat distraught. She reorganizes her cards in her hands and doesn’t make any attempt to add to the conversation.

Josh shows his hand. “Three of a kind.”

Anna bites her lip. “Well, um, that’s a good one…” And then slams her cards down on the table, before culling the chips over to her side with a wide grin. “Full house!”

 _God,_ Greg can’t help but think. _They’re both so...cheerful._

“New hand, boys?” Anna says, tossing her chips between her palms like they’re dice.

“Mincing gambling strategies?” Greg observes.

“I make it a point not to give away my secrets.”

Josh shrugs and forks over his cards so his girlfriend can shuffle them. “Cards are, like, one of her secret talents. I think I’ve won, like, four times. Total. In three years.”  

“Out of?”

“I dunno. Like, fifty?”

The doorbell rings and Anna excuses herself to greet the delivery-person. Josh stretches out on the ground before gesturing to the giant bean-bag.

“That’s pretty cool, huh?”

“The beanbag? It’s different.”

“It was kind of funny. When we first got it, it came in a box about, uh, yea-big --” Josh holds out his hands no more than a foot out from each other. “And when we took it out it just _inflated_ on its own. It was...so cool. Just. So cool.”

They bounce back and forth between basketball and hockey on the TV. God knows why. Neither of them have ever been particularly into hockey, but it’s probably something to do with commercials and the avoidance thereof.

It’s a nice way to spend the afternoon after a morning full of meetings. Full on crappy pizza, cheering on opposing teams, and shouting at the screen with a buddy.  

He’d be wont to say that it’s like nothing has changed but...the fact things had changed between him and Josh was a huge part of what made this worth appreciating. Forgive Greg the sentimentality, but it’s been a while. With the clusterfuck of Bunchsanity behind them, after going their separate ways, it’s nice to know they’ll always have sports and shitty food and a few good jokes.

About halfway through the second game, a white ball of pure fluff emerges from the hall. Anna extends her hand out in front of her and clicks her tongue, enticing the fluff towards her.

“You aren’t allergic to cats are you, Greg?” She asks, scooping up the furball.

“Nope.” Greg says, not taking his eye off the dribbling ball on the TV. “Used to have one.”

“Gravy’s great,” Josh says, also not taking his eyes from the screen. “And, might I add, totally not creepy.”

“For the last time, Bruno wasn’t _haunted,”_ Greg shakes his head just before attempting to jump off the beanbag in victory only to find it’s swallowed him.

Josh closes his own cheer at the screen with a rather loud scoff. “I know what I saw!”

 

* * *

 

 

Rebecca gets the email alert on Wednesday, luckily enough, just as she’s finishing up with a proposal. Auditions for the spring musical, _Brigadoon,_ are opening up soon. It’s the story of a Scottish village that only wakes up for one day every century, and a pair of American tourists just happen to stumble inside and, of course, love ensues.

She wonders, for a half a second, if Greg would have something to say about it. Compare the archaic village to their own West Covina. He probably would. Even if they’re nothing alike. West Covina isn’t even a little Scottish.

Pushing it away, she scours the cast list. It’s pretty expansive. She’s got a shot. There’s Fiona, the female lead, and naturally a soprano. But there’s also a mezzo part, Jean, and an alto in Meg.  

So, she’ll be shooting for Meg.

But there’s a pretty hefty ensemble, too. A woman’s quartet, a large chorus, and - get this - _bagpipe_ players.

Not that Rebecca knows how to play the bagpipes. But if she could learn basic tap dancing and jazz squares, she can learn the bagpipes. Most definitely.

She spends the rest of her free time that morning, and a little time she probably should’ve been reading over the files for her newest client, looking up good audition songs and monologues. She’d done _Seasons of Love_ when she got the Adelaide understudy part. And so far, for this time, it looks like she’s stuck between either _Don’t Rain on My Parade_ or _I Get a Kick Out of You._  

 

By the time she looks at the details for the newest case, she’s opted for the second song.  She’s still got it stuck in her head, singing the bridge under her breath on a stubborn repeat.

She scours the files on her computer, trying (and failing) to keep time on her fingers with the swanky tune in her head. But, at least this isn’t a particularly serious case. There’s a zoning conflict with a place one of their clients wants to build a hotel. Some company wants to set up HQ in the same locale. That shouldn’t take long, at all, to sort out. Rebecca leans back in her chair, gives it a spin, and sings out softly, because he brain just can’t let it go, “ _Flying too high with some guy in the sky is my idea of nothing to do, but I get a kick out of you…”_

 

* * *

 

 

Greg and his coworkers don’t go back to their lawyer’s office to meet with their opposition. Anya had figured it’d be nicer to meet in a place a little more lax. It’s not necessarily good marketing, but that’s one of the drawbacks of being under young management. He just hopes it won’t make them sitting ducks, working out legal maneuvers in the hotel’s conference room.

Greg’s filing through the financial plan with Jon to see what they can break out in case this external firm has a leg to stand on. And, he doesn’t think they do. It’s a zoning thing, though, and that’s not exactly Greg’s strong suit.

They’re pouring over lines and lines of numbers and spreadsheets and documents, trying to scrounge up money where there doesn’t appear to be any. This, this right here, is what Greg went to school for. It might get him a little hot under his tie sometimes, but at least it’s a problem with fairly clear solutions.

Anya leans over their shoulders to get a peek at where the financial leads were taking this.  After a full minute, the breathless question comes, “How’s it coming?”

“Pretty _good_ ,” Greg says, still punching numbers.

Jon amends. “We’ll be finished in a bit.” He goes on to gesture towards the laptop screen. “What about there--”

“Well, I hope it’s good enough,” Anya mutters. “The Big Bad Lawyers are here.”

Greg swivels around in his chair to stand up and greet his adversaries only to find himself staring at (of _course,_ because irony is alive and well _)_ a slew of familiar faces.

“Oh shit.”

Why can’t he catch a break?

From Anya, a soft, “What is it?” is immediately belied by the wave of noise that springs up, the collective gasp, of the crowd wandering into the conference room. That same familiar group he’d seen years and years ago. Darryl and Paula and Rebecca.

And Rebecca’s knuckles have gone white on her briefcase, and Greg’s pretty sure their gapes are matched.

Darryl, is of course the first person to react. All peppy and energetic. “Look who’s here! Well, isn’t this a small world?!”

“Microscopic,” is all Greg can say, as they all settle down across the table, the awkward freezing in the air, at least until Jon whispers, a little too loudly, “So, do you, um, _know_ them?”

 

* * *

 

 

By evening, they all trudge out of the conference room. Greg finds himself in the lounge after a very convincing head-tick from Rebecca. They’re sitting next to the fireplace, pilsner glasses full of sparkling water marking the distances between their hands.

Rebecca had approached him after the meeting when she caught him making eye contact. She’d broken from something with Paula that could only be described as a huddle, which only shattered when Paula said, “Make good choices.”

And, honestly, Greg doesn’t know if Rebecca is completely disregarding Paula’s suggestion or how he should compartmentalize this chain of events, but he’s probably much better off just paying attention to what’s going on right now. Deal with the other shit later.

Case and point, how the fireplace in the lounge is warm at his back and how it highlights all the contours of her face, and deepens the shadows for a pretty over dramatic image.

“Y’know,” Rebecca says over the ill-suited glassware. “That contract of yours has some major loopholes. Like. _Major_ loopholes.”

“Is that so?” Greg asks, leaning in to...to...to adjust his seating and prevent a hot butt. Obviously. “Then why give us our space?”

“It’s legal. Just not particularly strong.” Rebecca says. Her nose scrunches just a little. “ _Aand,_ our clients found a location they like better for their hotel.”

“Then why show up at all?”

“It’s the decent thing to do,” Rebecca says, flouting her own glass as if she were drunk on cloud nine.

It doesn’t seem like a particularly strong reason. But, it doesn’t matter. It’s nice to have her company. The firelight makes everything soft and glowy around them, the shimmer over their glasses, the necklace Rebecca’s wearing, the way her skin just _looks_ warm. For the sake of not vocalizing the thought, he sighs and says, “Well, you’re consistent.”

Rebecca makes an elaborate show of blinking, and wipes a curl off from her forehead. “So. Greg. You’ve been in California a lot lately.”

“Twice in four months is ‘a lot?’”

“You know what I mean.” Rebecca narrows her eyes, and offers a rather playfully gorgeous frown as she leans on her own knuckles. “But, seriously. Everything okay? It’s important to be happy. Sometimes you can just, y’know, get swept up in trying to get ahead and--”

She goes on and on and Greg finds himself tilting his head to the side.

“And it might be hard for you to admit, since it’s all you wanted to do. I mean, get out of West Covina, and if you’re not really happy--”

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa,”_ Greg finds himself laughing, in spite of the fact Rebecca’s tangible concern is not at all funny. “What makes you think I’m not happy?”

“ _Are_ you?” Rebecca asks. And it’s so direct, so, ridiculously without pretense or any of her usual frills.

“Yeah,” Greg says. He takes a moment to enjoy the crackle of the fireplace, and the inconsequential din of conversations around them, clinking glasses, raucous behavior,  filling empty space between them. After he swallows, he goes on.

“For the first time, ever, I’ve got a great job. It’s more than a job it’s...it’s a career. My apartment’s...fine. It’s gonna be…” He fades, watching Rebecca’s head flip from one side to another, “It’s gonna be good.”

“And, just to be clear, that’s making you _happy_?”

“Yes. Just being away from dead-ends makes me happy.”

“Good.”

They’re silent for a moment. Stillness fills the empty spaces around the fireplace and its crackling.  

“Et tu, Bunch-te?”

Rebecca snickers at the joke, and goes back to leaning on her knuckles, one hand perpetually stuck on the sweating glass, fingers getting wet. “Very. Thanks for asking, Cesar.”

They nosedive into silence. Spending their precious minutes eavesdropping on partial conversations by strangers and their friends, families, and business partners. Listening in on the twists and turns over other people’s narratives.

It feels like they’ve been sitting, silently, for an hour. It feels like it might even have been two. But it was probably more like three to five minutes, and then Rebecca says, “Hey. Do you remember Beans’s party? Way back when we first met?”

“Yeah. Kinda hard to forget.” And when Rebecca furrows her brows at the specificity of his statement, he can’t help but elaborate. “It’s not every day I have to stop a crying girl from blowing me.”

And Rebecca just rolls her eyes and flips him off, subtly over the table, and says, “ _Anyway._ I was thinking more about...you know, then versus now. It’s like everything’s shifted.”

“What rose-colored glasses are you looking out of?”

“I’m serious. You’re in recovery. I’ve worked out quite a few of my...or, okay, well, I’m _working on_ , some of my issues. It’s--it’s a big deal.”

“Well, congratulations,” Greg says. “I’m glad to hear everything’s….”

“Copacetic.” Rebecca cuts him off. When he turns to look at her, she tilts her body more towards him, biting her lip. “That’s eighty-four points.”

Greg can feel his face crinkle in on itself, and he’s getting warm in the chest as he says, “Pretty sure you made that up.”

“Now _you’re_ accusing _me_ of making up words?”

“No. Not the word. The points.”

“Oh, well that. Yeah. For sure. Yes.”

They swing into a lingering conversation about nothing. Empty words that fill the spaces like water in a bowl, laughing and tossing small talk laced with harmless barbs. It’s nice and eventless and goes on for what, this time, feels like minutes, but next thing they know, the bartender is closing up and the doors on the lounge are about to close.

“Damn, it’s 3am,” Rebecca says. “I...I didn’t mean to stay so late. You’ve got work tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Just flying back to New York.”

Rebecca narrows her eyes and fiddles around in her purse. Probably for her phone so she can get an Uber or something. “I don’t suppose you have to be super well rested for that, huh?”

“Not really.” And Greg doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, but he doesn’t want to see Rebecca walking through that door, even as they’re asked to leave the lounge, alongside a few droopy drunks, after closing.

They make their way to the lobby. Greg calls and elevator and Rebecca stops in front of him. This is it. Again. Possibly forever. Every time can be the last time.

 _Remember_ . _Remember how she dicked you around for almost a year._ How complicated it was. How everything before, after, and in between actually being with her was a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

“I guess I should get a ride.” Rebecca reaches into her purse, thumb rotating around the glass on her phone. “It was great to see you again, Greg. Really.”

He holds his breath. Remember, there’s no way to go back. No way to un-screw each other’s friends. No way to pretend like they had ever been anything but a mess. They they  couldn’t have been anything but a giant mess. That the mess was anything but inevitable.

And that’s why it doesn’t make any sense to him, in that slow countdown as the elevator descends, that he doesn’t actually want to get into that elevator. Not alone at least.

The elevator descends from the tenth to the ninth floor.

His throat is dry. He looks over to Rebecca. Some of her curls are unfurled from a full day’s work. Her lipstick is smudged from joking and negotiating and talking.

Greg turns around to face her. “Hey, Bunch. I know it’s been a long time. And I’m probably opening a huge can of worms by even suggesting this, but I’m leaving tomorrow anyway. And I thought I was over this doing things I know probably aren’t the best for me but...”

“But?”

Eighth floor to the seventh.

“I guess you bring that out in me.”

Rebecca steps back. “What?”

Fifth to fourth.

“You also kinda make me want to forget why I left in the first place.”

“You said we were a shit--”

“Makes me _want_ to.”

“Oh,” Rebecca nods slowly. Then she pauses.

Third to second.

Rebecca shifts. “So, what are you trying to say?”

“Why don’t we just, say we forget the details. And--”

“Do you have a room here?” Rebecca interrupts him, knowing eyes glinting in a way just short of gorgeous.

“Nope,” Greg says, just as he supplies his key card. “Yes. Yes, of course I do.”

“Then what the hell are we waiting for?”

The doors slide open.

It’s unclear who kisses who. It’s always been obvious before. And in big, grand moments like this, it was usually Rebecca, but Greg can’t say one way or another who it was as they scramble into the elevator, a mess of arms and legs.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up with a hideously loud  snort that just happens to jolt Rebecca awake too. Either that, or she was never sleeping in the first place. Women are so good at staying awake after sex in a way that Greg just...isn’t.

“Bad dream?” She asks, voice scratchy, holding the sheet up to her chest like she’s hiding something. Or maybe because she wants eye contact. Either or.

“No. Just. Waking up,” Greg mutters, shaking the fog out of his brain. He doesn’t usually sleep this well in hotels. “What time is it?”

Rebecca leans backwards, exposing her chest for a beat to look at the clock. “Six in the morning.”

Greg stiffens and closes his eyes. “I’ve got a plane to catch in two hours.”

He hadn’t intended it to sounds so _depressing_.

Rebecca flops over, in true Rebecca fashion, hovering over his chest. “Ugh. _Planes._ Responsibility. _Life.”_

It’s so much like the old days, down to the smell in the air and the pouty look on Rebecca’s mouth that Greg can’t do much but laugh. So, he does. Laughs deep in his throat and, before he knows it, finds Rebecca rolling on top of him, eyes bright and lips upturned, quieting him with her grin against his.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, um, _Gregory,_ ” Rebecca says as they’re fishing around the room for clothes.  Greg can immediately feel the blood in his veins start to freeze up.

Very, very few good things ever come out of _Gregory._ But he nods, turns to her like a normal person, and replies with “Yeah?”

“Was there  any, oh I dunno, reason you were here for this particular meeting...In L.A...Across the country from your office?”

Greg narrows his eyes as he reaches under the bed, on his hands and knees, for her shoe. “You’re fishing.”

“Well, I was wondering,” Rebecca says like she’s thinking in any tense but past. “If you coming to the meeting about the L.A branch...means you’re gonna be... _at_ that branch.”

“Not unless they need a financial analyst.” Greg says, reaching up from under the bed to hand her her shoe.

“So, this’s it, huh?”

Greg may or may not be projecting with how sad she sounds.

And he can’t lie and say he really thought this far ahead last night. His brainpower wasn’t exactly firing at a 10 at the time. But now, Rebecca looks as dejected as his chest cavity feels.

Because, when all’s said and done, they’re leading entirely separate lives, at different ends of the country. No matter how fucking great it feels to get back in touch with Rebecca, to re-draw their lines of intimacy, the fact remains that they’re forever going to be at this impasse.

God. There probably won’t be a time or a place where this doesn’t hurt like hell.

“I think so.”

“Damn. I could’ve gotten used to this again.”

Rebecca pulls on her shoe, fingers lingering a little by her heel.

“Me too.”

And now Rebecca’s dressed and Greg’s about halfway there, undershirt and pants sans belt, and there’s this heaviness settling in over them, and it doesn’t go away when they kiss goodbye for what’s, possibly, the last time.

 

* * *

 

 

You know you’ve been flying a lot when, not only do you _read_ Sky Mall, but you’ve already seen most of the ridiculous merchandise featured inside the pages. It’s not like Greg’s ever going to buy any of this ridiculous stuff, but it’d still be nice to have something new to look at, instead of the same heated toilet seat or a grill spatula with a special LED light.

After all, don’t they say that variety is the spice of life?

Speaking of, who on earth would spend $36 on glass containers for spices? Even if they have oak stoppers. Probably Shawna and Stewart, but they buy weird shit. It’s kind of what they do.

He turns the page of the catalogue, only to hear a scratchy voice beside him. “Wait. I wasn’t done looking at the Bluetooth Heat Therapy Mitts!”

And, honestly, he’s so put off by the fact somebody is _reading over his shoulder,_ that he doesn’t even stop to register just how familiar that voice is.

“Do you _mind--”_ Greg starts to ask, but he stops, jaw clamping shut. He can practically _feel_ his eyes bug out like he’s some Warner Brothers’ cartoon character. " _Rebecca?”_

And Rebecca grins at him, her eyebrows darting up deviously like she’d always do before one of her signature shenanigans.

Greg can only gape. “You followed me on the _plane?_ What the hell--”

“Oh, no. No, no.” Rebecca abruptly throws one hand up, and Greg finds his mouth clamping shut at the insinuation, even before her fingers flex in the air. “ _I’m_ not actually here.”

“What?”

“You’re dreaming. You’ve been asleep for an hour.” Rebecca says, hands now secure in her lap. Hands that are...suddenly covered in polka dots with five extra fingers on each hand.

And, considering Greg is neither drunk nor high, he has to concede that this dream thing makes more sense than the...frankly, _crazy_ alternative.

“I’ll be your Dream Ghost Guide for the morning.”

Greg can’t help ask. Even if he knows he shouldn’t. “My _what_?”

Rebecca’s eyes grow on her face so fast it’s nearly comical.  Opting instead to let her hands fly up to her mouth as she says, “Am I your first Dream Ghost experience? Wow. First girl to screw you with a strap-on and now your first Dream Ghost. I’m batting 2 for 2 with you.”

“Hey! Not so loud,” Greg darts his eyes around the plane to see if any patrons overheard that. Thankfully, each patron seems just as wrapped up in their books and Kindles and in-flight movies as the next one.

“Again,” Rebecca clarifies. “ _Dream._ You’re dreaming. This is all in your head.”

“Yeah, I doubt the real Bunch would pull sports metaphors on me.”

“There you go.” Rebecca nods. “So, ooh. What’re we gonna do? I’ve always wanted to be a Dream Ghost. After this, I’m doing something fun. That last intergalactic play I saw was great and I heard they’re doing a sequel…”

“ _What_?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. This is _your_ dream. I’m your Dream Ghost. ‘Bidness first and _then_ the fun stuff. So. What’s up?”

“You tell me.”

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.” Rebecca shrugs. “I’m new to this Dream Ghost thing, but I’m pretty sure I can’t help you if you don’t even address the problem to yourself. If you don’t know the problem, you’re not gonna be able to give yourself the reveal that you knew all along and the whole schtick is messed up.”

“...you’ve been sticking with therapy, haven’t you?”

“I have.” Rebecca nods. “But that’s not the point. We need to figure out what you’re trying to work through. Unless…” She breaks eye contact to _ponder_ for a second. And ponder seems like a ridiculously archaic word, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind for the bemused look smacked across her face. “Hold on a sec.”

And then Rebecca, in true Rebecca fashion, proceeds to open her own collar and look down her shirt. She then shakes her head vehemently enough her curls bounce around her ears. “Yeah, no. My underwear is nowhere near sexy enough for this to be that kind of dream.”

“Damn.” Greg mutters through an over-exaggerated grimace.

“Yeah. Big bummer for me too.” She slides off the seat and gestures for Greg to join her in the aisle. “So, what’s going on in that noggin’ of yours?”

“My _noggin?”_

“Hey, your dream.” Rebecca nods. And, when Greg doesn’t answer right away, she reaches over and steals a newspaper from a patron with a handlebar moustache seated to her left. He doesn’t even notice. Rebecca peruses the paper for a moment and then _understanding_ ignites her face like the first firework on the fourth of July. " _Ah._ I see.”

“Care to explain it to me?”

“It’s right here in black and white,” Rebecca makes a big show of rolling up the newspaper into a thin scroll. She takes a few quick steps forward and punctuates each sentence with a tap to Greg’s chest. “You’re having this dream because _you_ ,” Tap, “Don’t want to admit it, but _you_ ,” Tap.

“Oh, give me that,” Greg blurts, and Rebecca thrusts the paper into his hands, but not before she finishes.

“You miss West Covina.”

“What?” Greg scoffs. “That’s crazy.”

Rebecca offers nothing more than an over-exaggerated shrug and gestures to the paper.

Greg honestly blames the altitude for the ridiculousness of this dream as he unscrolls the newspaper to see his name on the headline: **COULD WEST COVINA NOT BE THAT BAD? GREG SERRANO HAVING DOUBTS.**

Greg snaps the paper shut practically on contact. Good as a poisonous snake. “No. No, no,” He repeats. “That’s...not what this is.”

“Why not?” Rebecca presses, hands on her hips.

“Well, for one thing, you give horrible advice.” Greg says, not sure why he’s so defensive. “No offense.”

“Maybe I did. But I’m not me, remember?”  Rebecca shrugs. “Figment of your imagination. Dream Ghost.”

“So why... _you?”_

He hopes he doesn’t sound as defeated as he thinks he does.

Another shrug from Dream Ghost Rebecca. “Maybe because we saw each other naked five minutes before you left for LAX.” She circles closer. “Or maybe you never actually got over me.”

“It’s been three years.” Greg scoffs. Or, well, he _tries to._

“So? I thought _I_ was over _you_. I moved on. Built my own life. Just like you. And then something happened. We clicked again.  You even said you could get used to it. Out loud.”

Greg adjusts himself uncomfortably at the thought that he did _actually_ admit that, to Rebecca, of all people. He lets himself sit on that thought for just a moment before snapping back.

“We can’t go back like we weren’t the epitome - and I mean the _epitome -_ of dysfunction.”

“Don’t you wanna know if we would still be like that?”

“What?”

“Three years is a long time, Greg. Things change.”

“Yeah.” Greg nods in an over exaggerated display. “They got new spices at my favorite Taco truck. Big changes all over.”

“Y’know, you’re short-changing a lot of people. Josh is...well, Josh is doing great, and he always does great. But other people have cleared their hurdles too. Hector living on his own. Heather graduating. Valencia getting down with her sapphic self.  Even Marty worked hard enough to get promoted. I’ve been dealing with my baggage. So what if West Covina hasn’t grown into Manhattan since you’ve been gone? Sometimes it’s the little things that add up.”

Greg can’t stop himself from the next thing that pops out of his mouth. He doesn’t know what evidence to consider. He finds himself gnawing on the side of his cheek. “It still doesn’t matter. I have a life in Rochester. I love it. I love my job. I’ve got friends. Kind of.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re conflicted. You’re feeling new things about California.”  

“But, see, the thing is,” Greg says, “That’s all it is. Feelings. There’s no substance.”

“Twenty-six years and no substance, huh?”

“It’s not real, Rebecca.”

“Sure it is.” She responds. With a snap of her fingers the cramped interior of the airplane disintegrates. Now they’re standing back on that bridge. The same one, adorned with a danger sign, they’d had their last hopeful interaction, three years ago. Before they had to face reality.

This is just stupid optimism. That’s all it ever was. Rebecca’s just spieling off the stupid optimism that's kept him on the hook for the first full year he’d known her. He’d shaken it off before, he can do it again.

Rebecca goes on: “There’s no reason you can’t think about this place differently. Your family’s here. Your friends. Plus, you’ve got more going for you now.”

Greg feels his brow rise over on his forehead and Rebecca expands.

“Your job. Your degree. You’re sober.  Hell, you sell bonds and stocks and you wear a tie.”

“And that’s exactly why I can’t go back. Nevermind I can’t just uproot everything and move back because it _might not be that bad_. I can’t…”

“Be a dusty potato?”

Greg pauses. “Damn; you _are_ a figment of my imagination.”

And Rebecca’s smile is just as gorgeous as it’s always been. And maybe there’s an element of fantasy to the way her face looks right now, an extra element of handsomeness and feminine curvature, that he can’t even focus enough to figure out if it’s fabricated or memory.

“So I guess the question here,” Rebecca says, “Is what trick your mind’s playing on you.”

“What?”

“Am I a surrogate for a bad idea you’re tossing around because you’re a little altitude sick? Or,” She comes closer, standing practically on his toes. For a second, Greg wishes this wasn’t a dream so he could feel her shoes brush up against his. “Am I a part of what you really want?”

“Seriously? I can’t go down this road again.” Greg steps away, leans against the side of the bridge. “Even if I did actually want to come back - nevermind that this is probably just some kind of altitude-induced nightmare. That doesn’t matter. I have a job in Rochester. I can’t just up and move because I want to. That’s not how this works. What do you even want? Do you want me to throw myself back into everything I worked so hard to leave behind?”

“I don’t think you want to keep it behind you.”

“What?”

“Some of it sure, but--” Rebecca chuckles a little. “You know what I think?”

“Considering you’re a figment of my imagination? Probably.”

She narrows her eyes, but goes on. “I think West Covina wasn’t the problem. I think it was that you were miserable there. Now you’re happy and can catch things you couldn’t before. A part of you recognizes that. It doesn’t have to still be a shitshow. It just depends on how you look at it.”

“Are you about to tell me that it’s fate that I came back to town and got all wrapped up and that’s a _sign_ or something that I should come back?”

“Well, you did listen to signs once. And that worked out.”

Greg stops. For a second he wonders how Rebecca knew. But then he remembers. Dream Ghost.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” It’s a hollow apology. But he supposes, if he never sees the real Rebecca again, this is better than nothing.

“Don’t be. You needed it. I needed it.”

He can feel it coming. He edges forward, closer to Rebecca. “But?”

“ _But._ Look at it this way. We were both different people when we first met at Home Base. We were different people at that airport when you ripped both our hearts out. We’re different people now.”

“And if this just turns into a repeat of before?”

“Then you know everybody involved will be okay. ‘Cause, y’know, this is about more than just you and me. Your dad doesn’t have a lot of time left. You miss Josh and White Josh and Hector. Happiness isn’t a place. Neither is misery. You’d be working in L.A, in an office, surrounded by your friends when you’re off the clock.”

“Okay, Yoda. But I think the thing you aren’t getting is just how...risky this is.”

“That’s the catch.”

“We were so unhealthy, Rebecca.”

“I’m not gonna argue that.” She pauses. “But…”

“There’s always a but.”

“ _But,_ to use my new musical theater terms: that was all Act I. This was Act II. We’ve grown and changed and all these little things add up; everything could be different. _But,_ now it’s up to you and me -- the real me, though -- whether or not there’s gonna be an Act III.”

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up as his ears pop at the airplane’s descent back to the lithosphere.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘Cause this’s a fantasy_  
>  But, hey let’s think this through,  
> Yes, this’s a dream, but I’m over there
> 
>  
> 
> _in California._  
>  but I’m not gonna wait,  
> you wanna settle with me  
> because, face it, baby, we’re great.  
> 

 

If this was some kind of movie or romance novel, Greg would have turned around at the airport and took the very next plane to LAX, rang down her door, and kicked it shut behind him.

But that’s the kind of tapwater dream you have to leave behind in your twenties. Or, in your childhood hometown, as it were.

So, Greg has to face facts. It was a dream. That’s it. You don’t take life advice from your dreams. End of story. What kind of person actually listens to their dream ghosts? It's a dream! He's had dreams about having a neck as long as a giraffe. He's had dreams about swimming in an ocean of lemon-meringue pudding. That doesn't mean it's a good idea to dive into desserts or stretch his neck to stratospheric heights. It just means...it's a dream.

He pulls his suitcase off the conveyor belt, finds his car buried under what feels like five full feet of snow, and curses himself taking the California heat for granted.

It’s route after that. He gets himself some apple juice, unpacks, and settles down for a night in front of his TV.

It’s quiet, except for some new superhero show ( _another one? Seriously?)_ the CW is trying to showcase. Greg looks around his apartment, from the white wall (bare except for the photo he took with his dad, like, ten years ago), to the peg with his parka hanging. He drags his eyes down the wall to the floor, watching as everything gets progressively dirtier and damaged by road salt as his eyes descend.

He lifts his juice box to his mouth and sucks on the straw.

 

* * *

 

 

The windows are foggy on his floor, from the heat mincing with the freezing New York air and setting clouds onto the glass. He’s asked to Elsie’s office before lunch, and he can figure it’s for one of two reasons. One of which being that he’s been away a lot and needs to step up his game. The other, far more likely option, is that it’s just another surprise progress report.

He walks into Elsie’s office and the first thing he notices is how cold it is. He has no idea how that woman sits in here for a full workday, five days a week. She should get her heating looked at. But, once he’s clear of the Brr-lin Wall , or at least used to it, he can focus on the scene in front of him. Elsie and Anya are sitting at the table, laptops in front of them, and bright faces.  

“Mr. Serrano,” Elsie says, gesturing to the table. “Sit down, please.”

He does, and looks patiently between the two women.

Elsie begins: “My sister and I were looking at your numbers, and they’re quite impressive. You’ve been hard at work.”

Greg nods to show his thanks.

“You’re savvy with our stocks, you know how much to put into the bonds--”

“Not to mention,” Anya adds in with the kind of laissez-faire ease in her interruption only a sister could give. “That is one snazzy tie.”

Elsie glares into the space above Greg’s head, probably having learned a long time ago to just roll with it. Greg gets that; he can respect that. “But, and more to the point, you’re getting better at working in teams.”

Greg can almost grimace. That’s been the biggest thing in his reviews ever since he got this job.

Elsie goes on: “Your job performance is steadily at a high. You’re more than willing to travel. And your records with us show you’re willing to relocate.”

Greg saw this coming, but there’s something exciting in actually hearing this out of his bosses’ mouths. He could practically cheer. Fuckin’ hell.

Anya finishes: “We want to put you on our financial management team.”

From Elsie: “Before you say yes or no, you should know the specifics of how we intend to operate this, perhaps differently than other companies. We’ll have one person heading the team in each of our new locations as we expand, so we  can have an in-depth look at the effects, efforts and expenses  in any given location. Twice a year, we’ll meet in Manhattan for a conference.”

“So,” Anya adds. “You’ll probably be travelling more than before.”

 _Where do I sign?_ Is all Greg can think, but he nods and says, “That won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Elsie says, calmly, while Anya gives Greg a nice hearty round of applause.  Elsie continues: “Now, the exact places we’re expanding to are: Chicago, St. Paul, Louisville, Houston, Seattle, and Los Angeles.”

From Anya: “We want you in L.A.”  

_What?_

“Don’t act like he doesn’t have a choice,” Elsie bristles. “Either Los Angeles _or_ Seattle. You know the West Coast, you’re the best man for the job.”  

And now Greg’s staring at two different options, as if his bosses’ heads have extended into two separate crystal balls holding his future. In one, back to the world of bougie hipsters and hippies, the world he grew up in and the world he’d tried to escape over and over again. The world with his Dad and family and Josh and Hector and White Josh and Bunch and…

Well, on the other hand, he could have another new beginning in Seattle. Let all the rain wash away the past and let him fill his veins with overpriced Starbucks coffee. Oregon had seasons, fog, and all sorts of new stuff he doesn’t even know about. Seattle, for all Greg knows, could be a start of a whole new life for himself.

Elsie speaks again, as if no time had passed, “But, Mr. Serrano, ultimately we’ll leave the choice to you.”

“L.A or Seattle, Greg?”

 

* * *

 

 

He gets himself an apartment in Monterey Park. He figures this way he can save some of his own dignity, avoid living in downtown L.A amongst the hipsters and hikers. It’s only thirty minutes from his office and forty in the other direction from Shady Acres. Google maps says to half that, but he’s lived in California long enough to know it’s best to double your driving time. Unless you’re carpooling.

He should find someone to carpool with, cut down that time.  Either that or invest in a few good audiobooks to make the ride go faster. You can only listen to the same inane radio hosts for so long before the music isn’t worth listening to at all.

But that isn’t Greg’s main concern right now. His main concern is to unpack everything and get a decent night’s rest.

He’s thankful his buds didn’t give him much flak for moving back to California. Josh, on the contrary, had been excited. “It’ll be just like old times!”

Hector had a few remarks about it, none of them terribly clever. Greg could hear White Josh’s snicker over the phone, but all he’d said was that he and Darryl had Madison that weekend, so if Greg wanted their help moving, it’d need to be okay with him that they bring her.

It was.

What’s the harm in getting people to help? Especially when it comes to moving. He’d moved everything, alone, from his Dad’s to Emory and then from Emory to Rochester, and like hell if he wants to do it alone again.

He supplies the pizza, and it only takes a few hours between the six of them, to get everything in. Because there’s no elevator, and because they’re objectively the strongest, White Josh and Hector move the heftier furniture. Madison and Josh move the lighter stuff and organize the kitchen. Darryl puts up the photos and that one painting of a giant fish Greg found at a flea market back in Georgia.

And, as for Greg, he runs back and forth between the moving truck and the apartment, heaving stuff, unpacking where he can, organizing. By the time the pizza comes, he knows his stomach is audibly growling, whether or not his friends’ are, and it’s a welcome change of pace.

Josh plugged in the TV first thing, so they can watch the game, while they eat.  It’s March so basketball is just closing up. The Lakers are winning by a pretty wide margin, so the suspense is largely nonexistent. But it’s still nice to have something to cheer over with his old friends.

They’re almost done with the two pizzas in front of them, bro-ing out over the game despite the obvious winner, when Darryl approaches. He must’ve gone back to his photo-sorting job at some point.

“Hey, Greg,” He says, “I found this at the bottom of your photo box. Do you want it, I dunno, on the fridge with a magnet, maybe?”

Greg hasn’t looked away from the TV, but when he does, he can feel his heart splutter. It’s the photo strip he took with Rebecca. That same one that he’d poured over before leaving for Emory, three years ago. The pictures are stained, probably after living out three years at the bottom of a box in a storage facility, but he can still read their expressions. That punch of happiness that once was.

“Um,” He says. “Just...put it on the mantle, I’ll deal with it.”

Darryl narrows his fuzzy little caterpillar eyebrows, but doesn’t ask more, and goes back to his job.

But, even though Darryl doesn’t pry, that doesn’t mean Greg’s friends won’t. He doesn’t even turn to face them before the chorus of: “ _Dude! Again?”_ swells behind him.

“Technically not again,” Greg responds, wishing there was more food to stuff into his face and divert the questions from his friends. “That was taken three years ago. I just never got rid of it.”

From Hector; “Oh.”

From White Josh: “That makes sense.”

And Greg grimaces. Never let it be said he’s a dishonest man. “But, yeah. Technically, again.”

“Dude!”

“What?”

“...”

“Just once.” Greg says, sparing the gory details considering A) he’s a decent person and B) Madison is right there, looking at him with a kind of amusement that almost seems...knowing.

“So far, since I’ve been back and forth between New York and California. Once.”

But, surprisingly, it’s Madison who says, “WhiJo, that means you owe me fifteen bucks. Hector, ten.”

She holds out her hand with wiggling fingers as, surprisingly, his friends fork over the cash.

Madison smiles. “Easy money.”

Greg gapes. “You guys...bet on me?”

While Hector and White Josh squirm a little bit, nibbling on whatever they have left of their pizza, Madison is more than happy to elaborate: “WhiJo didn’t think you and Rebecca would get back together. Hector thought it’d be a while before it happened. I thought it’d be fast, if it didn’t already happen.”

He finds himself glaring  at his “friends.” “Thanks. That’s heartwarming.”

“Don’t blame us for you being so predictable,” Madison says, counting out her freshly earned cash.

Greg’s noticed that Josh hasn’t said anything, but he figures that if Chan wants to, he’d say something.

 

And he does, but later. More privately. Once they’ve gone back to sorting and heaving, Josh and Greg are carrying up the last box to Greg’s new apartment. Of course he happens to live on the third floor now, so they’ve got some time, as they carry the last of the kitchen appliances up the stairs.

Josh lifts the way he’s supposed to, bending his knees. “So,” He says, as they’re beginning to climb, “You and Rebecca, again?”

“Dunno,” Greg tries to shrug, but finds he can’t while holding a giant, super heavy piece of cardboard. “It did happen once, but that was before I moved back.”

“Does she _know_ that you moved back?”

“No. Not yet.”

“ _Dude.”_  Josh practically hits his own skull with, apparent, disbelief. “You realize you’re gonna be pulling a Rebecca now, right?”

“What?”

“Just showing up?”

“This’s…” Greg can’t help but grunt a little as they head up the stairs. Man, he’s out of shape. “This’s different.”

“However you wanna see it, man.” Josh says, edging up backwards with the box. Greg has to warn him when he’s about to hit the bannister, but the guy goes on with his speech. “Y’know...I told you about the stuff she pulled when she and I were a thing, right?”

“Yep.” Those had been some...awkward Skype calls.

“Including the period sex?”

Little does Josh know that Greg already earned his Red Wings with Rebecca, but he isn’t about to share that. “Yeah.”

“And you still...aren’t…I dunno...put off?”  
“No, I’m put off. Been put off since the day I met her.  But I keep coming back. Somehow.” Greg sighs, hefts the box up a few more steps.

“Boomerang, huh?” Josh nods. It might be an understanding nod or it might be a sympathetic one, and frankly either one would carry just as much weight.

“Boomerang.”

But it is nice of Josh when he says, “Well. No matter how it ends, you’re bound to have some good stories after this, huh?”

And Greg has to ask, being a good person and all, “You don’t... _mind_...do you?”

Josh scrunches up his face. “Nah. It’s been three years. It’s all cool.”  

And that’s technically the last they say on the matter, focusing the rest of their energy into lugging the box up the stairs. The stairwell isn’t air conditioned, and March is just like it always is in California: hot as hell. But at least his apartment has climate control, even if the heat is bound to rise from the floors below.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Dad says, feeding Sinatra a cracker for stepping on the remote’s power button. “You had the choice to work in Seattle or L.A, and you chose L.A?”

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Greg replies, leaning back in the new armchair his Dad must’ve won in another one of those bets the Shady Acres patrons do.

Dad looks at him, frowning, adjusts the tubes under his nose and asks, bluntly, “And why the hell would you do something like that?”

“Lots of reasons,” Greg says, scratching the back of his neck. He doesn’t think he’ll get very far explaining the whole Dream Ghost thing, so he opts for a more conventional reasoning. “Seattle’s rainy and..gross.”

Dad isn’t buying what Greg’s selling, he rarely does, and says, “Since when do you let weather decide where you're going? C’mon, be level with me.”

Greg sighs. “Okay, Dad, so you know that thing that happens when you think you know what you wanted? And then you realize you were wrong about the specifics?”

Dad squints. “Are you saying you regret getting your degree? After all this time wanting it?”

“No.” Greg holds his hands out in front of himself. “That was the right thing to do. But, well…” Oh, what the hell, might as well quote the Dream Ghost, “Happiness isn’t a place. People I care about are here. It just made sense.”

“And it’s got nothing to do with your little girl friend that you keep on coming back to?”

“When did I even tell you about this?” Greg gnaws on the side of his cheek. “But that’s not...The whole reason.”

“Greg. She’s kept you on a loop ever since you met her.” Dad coughs and judging by the look on his face, takes a moment to shake off the sour taste of phlegm in his throat. “Do you really think it’ll be different this time around?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Things have been different so far.”

Dad frowns and sets about stroking Sinatra with his forefinger.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Greg amends. “Because I haven’t seen her since I’ve been back.”

To that, and to Greg’s incredible surprise, his lets out a hard sound that is either a phlegmy chuckle or a scoff. “So, you’re gonna just sit back and wonder if you made the right choice without actually knowing one way or another?”

“No,” Greg frowns. “I’m just getting settled.”

“Look. From what I know about this Rebecca is that she's mostly trouble. But, you keep on coming back and there’s gotta be something to that.”

Dad stops, whether to think or catch his breath, Greg is unsure.

And then he goes on: “But if you wait forever, you’re never gonna go see her at all. And then you're just gonna get bitter again.”

Dad…

Has a point.

And the old man goes on. “Look, it’s seven. She should be out of work by now. You can stop at her place on the way home.”

“It’s not on the way home, Dad.”

“Then take the scenic route.”

 

* * *

 

 

He makes it to Rebecca’s door without thinking twice about it. The whole drive over , he didn't even think about it too much. He just wanted to pop in and…

And...and what exactly? Now that he's standing on the doorstep, he's not so sure.

The original idea had been to just...let her know that he's working in LA now and...and...and nothing. He probably wouldn't even have to fill in the rest of the blanks. Rebecca would probably do it for him. She'd probably go on her usual Rebecca tangents, or else flip the tables on him and remind him he'd hurt her three years ago, or something. Either way, she probably wouldn't  let him talk for a long time without giving him some kind of input.  

And maybe he shouldn't be here anyway. Maybe he shouldn't have taken the L.A job.

After all, it’s come down to this. He's a thirty-year-old man, standing on his ex's doorstep, engaging in more rom-com behavior. The same rom-com behavior that's burnt him over and over again in the past.

He should be beyond this, he shouldn't be engaging. But...well, he's already here. And, more to the point, he doesn't want to come back to California and let things pass. If he's going to be back here, he's not going to just skate by. He's not going to sit in the back and wait, whining and lamenting about how much life sucks. Not anymore. He's going to figure out if, now that he's back, what’s left.

Where, among all the little things that changed and all the big things that didn't, did he and Rebecca fall?

He holds his breath and counts down from three and pounds on the front door.

There's shuffling from inside the apartment. A short burst of women's voices. And then the door swings open, with Heather standing on the other side.

She's gobsmacked. And...well, yeah. Color Greg surprised, too, considering Heather’s standing in the doorway, hair all mussed up, chunk of dollar bills in her hand, wearing nothing but a throw blanket wrapped around her body like a towel.

"You're not the delivery guy," Heather says with a low drawl. She ticks her head to the side. "Are you?"

"Greg?" Valencia calls from the living room. From what Greg can see over Heather's shoulder, Valencia's leaning against the arm of the couch, hugging a pillow to cover herself.

"Uh. Hi, V." Greg says, not entirely sure what to make of this particular situation. To Heather he clarifies, even if it’s unnecessary, "No. I'm not."

There's a pause. It's awkward and Greg scratches the back of his neck before asking, "I'm...um...I...is Rebecca home?"

"Yeah, 'cause V and I have sex in the living room when Rebecca's home. She listens through the door and rates our performances."

Greg sighs. "Do you know where she is?"

"Yeah, but I dunno if I should tell you." Heather says, leaning on the doorframe. "Haven't you both been doing, like, really well without each other? What's with you storming in all of a sudden?"

“It just...happened.”

Heather sighs, long and hard. She tightens the blanket around her chest and purses her lips. Greg thinks he has her, for a quarter of a second, and then some guy walks up behind him.

"Whoa," The guy says, walking into the fray. He's covered in acne, and wearing a Dominos T-shirt with the pizza box to match. He catches the glares of the three adults around, and coughs. "Um. I got one large gluten-free vegetarian goat cheese pizza?"

And Greg honestly tries to stop himself from throwing up in his mouth a little, but it just kinda...shoots up his esophagus.

"Yeah, that's me," Heather says, reaching out to the kid with the wad of cash. She takes the pizza, "Just...keep the change."

"Yeah...thanks," The kid says, practically walking backwards to disappear into the night with his tip and the visual of the intimidatingly under-dressed but gorgeous woman in the doorway.

Greg shakes the exchange off and turns back to Heather in the foreground and Valencia in the background. "I get what you're doing. Kind of." Greg tongues the inside of his cheek. “But I’d appreciate your help.”

And, he got her. Heather sighs. "I'm not, like, entirely sure this applies. But I'm enacting the Meant to Be exemption."

From Greg: "The what?"

From Valencia, at the same time, "Really? For _him_?”

Heather doesn’t answer either of them. All she says is “She’s working late.”

 

* * *

 

 

He's got all the time in the world to go back on his initial resolve on his way to Whitefeather and Associates. He’s got all the time in the world to realize that this was not the thing to do. Yes, he has his position, yes, he's been thrown back into California. But by now he should realize that there's no reason that he and Rebecca should…

Should…

Whatever. The specifics don't matter. But it's not even like he'd want to go back, considering what they'd been through and how awful it'd been at times.

And it's not like he can say for sure that things would, inherently, be better just because he's had a few good interactions with Bunch since he's revisited. They'd had a good time at the Taco Festival four years ago, up till Rebecca went home with that hipster guy. They've had good times.  That doesn't change the overture of stress that always arose around Rebecca.

But, the crazy thing, is that no matter how many of these trains of thought he entertains, nothing makes him want to turn back.

Not to say that, unquestionably, anything’s actually going to change. All he's doing is stopping by to let Rebecca know about his new position.

It occurs to him as he exits the freeway that he could've just called her, opposed to driving all the way out to West Covina, going on this wild goose chase, at 7:30 at night, but at this point he doesn't want to stop himself.

The building isn't locked yet, one of the businesses must be open later than normal. And Greg's thankful considering he hadn't even thought about what he'd have done if the doors were locked.

That's a good sign, he thinks before immediately shutting down the thought, and refusing to dig further into this fucking narrative he always gets swept up by whenever Rebecca’s concerned.

But, nevertheless, he makes his way to the elevator.

 

* * *

 

 

Rebecca's office is the only one lit up, a cube of warm yellow light nuzzled in the dark. The nighttime is peppered with red and green pinpricks glowing off computers. He can see her through the glass walls, staring at a screen, fingers whizzing over her keyboard, gnawing on her bottom lip in concentration. She stands out next to the window, with the skyline behind her.

Greg hasn't been in Whitefeather that much. The smell of ink and warm printer paper and the kinds of lotions middle aged women like to use in the winter overrides. It’s the smell of Office, but with a distinct California twang. Maybe it’s in the lotions.

He stops, pauses, and takes a deep breath as he makes his slow steps across the firm. _Now or never, Serrano. Now or never._

And, as he walks, he counts backwards from ten, he can feel his heart ramming against his ribs.  Before he knows it, and way too soon, he's standing in Rebecca’s doorway. She's so engrossed in her work that she doesn't look up. It's...almost a shame to disrupt it, like stepping into a glass-still pond just for the sake of forcing it to ripple. But, if he waits any longer he's bound to lose his nerve.

And so, he knocks.

Rebecca looks up, abruptly, with a gasp. And then, he watches as her eyes grow. "Greg?"

"Hey," Greg says, lingering in the doorway. He knows if he crosses the threshold, he'll have to do...whatever it is he's set out to do here. "Mind if I come in?"

"Sure!" Rebecca says, forcefully at first, but then her voice lightens. "I mean, no. No, I don’t mind. Come on in."

She's still talking as he crosses the room, from door to the front of her desk. She stands, walking around the corner of the desk, to lean against her nameplate.

"What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Actually. Great." Greg says, tapping the outside of his thigh. "I got promoted. For a position in L.A."

"L.A?" Rebecca's eyes grow even bigger. He didn't figure that'd be possible, but somehow it is. "That's...close."

"Yeah. It is. I'm actually living in Monterey Park."

Rebecca's jaw goes a little slack. "That's even closer."

"Forty minutes in traffic."

“I’ve heard twenty.”

Greg can't help but smile, as he looks down at his feet. He didn't have much more of a script left, and Rebecca isn't embellishing. That’s one little thing that’s changed for sure. And so, he goes out on a limb. "Look, Bunch. I know we've been through a lot. You've broken my heart a lot. I've broken yours a lot. We've been a mess--"

"You came over here to tell me that?"

"Let me finish." Greg sighs, even if he's the tiniest bit grateful for the interruption. "My point is, it's been a lot. But, I still…” He sees the flash in her eyes and there’s nothing anyone could say to get him to look away. But, no, he’s not going down this same road. He reorients himself and goes on: “I just wanted to let you know...I’m around.”

Rebecca looks at him. Looks at him with those big blue eyes that always throw Greg for a loop, every damn time.

It’s like a prompt, and he’s talking again. “And, if you were interested in starting over again, like we were going to…maybe we could.”

It’s clunky and awful and, God, Greg should’ve rehearsed this. Even if he didn’t know this was what he was going to say when he first entered the building. But, at least he got it out. That’s better than nothing. Maybe.

Rebecca folds her arms over her chest, and she’s still gnawing her lip swollen, “You know, it’s...weird,” She begins. “When you first left, I was...well, I was devastated. I moved, partly because it was like you were living in my paint-job or something.”

Despite the interesting metaphor, despite it not making any sense, Greg can feel himself deflate.

“And partly because I set your sweatshirt on fire and almost burned down the entire building--”

“You what?”

Rebecca elects not to answer. "But, I'm listening to you talk, and...I'm all for this."

Greg re-inflates, just halfway. "You are?"

Rebecca looks down at her own toes. Greg follows suit and finds that they're pointing at each other, just like always. "I just, want to know. What brought you here, after everything you said at the airport? After all that stuff you said about us? What changed your mind?"

"I stand by that for the time." Greg amends. "But, it's new, now. We're...more Casablanca than we were."

"And we're not gonna go through the wringer again? With you withdrawing and getting super distant and all? I mean, I’ll do my part, but what about you?”

"No." Greg says, and he has to admit he's being honest. At least from his end. He can't think of a single reason he could ever have for sabotaging his relationship with Rebecca. Again. No amount of self-deprecation or straight up fear could be enough of an incentive.

If he sabotages himself once, shame on him. Do it again, and he's just a fucking idiot.  

"Well then." Rebecca says, leaning against the pseudo wood of her desk. "I wanna try this, too."

"Great." Greg says before he can stop himself. He doesn't know what he'd expected. But it wasn't...this.

But none of that matters, because now Rebecca's hands are sliding up the edges of her desk. She picks herself up, hips leading the rest of her body, from the desk and her hands find the edge of Greg's shirt. They rise up, towards his collar, and then with a fistfull of fabric, she brings their mouths together.

She tastes like skin and Mexican food and Diet Coke. Granted, that was probably her dinner, but either way, it’s nice. It’s Bunch.  He didn’t even mind what she tasted like in the morning (and nobody, _nobody,_ tastes good in the morning). He never did.

Together, they throw the files and papers off her desk. Rebecca gently places her laptop on the floor. Greg lifts her up onto the waxy surface. She’s wearing one of those flowy dresses, and it lets her part her knees easily to rest on either side of Greg’s hips.

God, he’s never been so _thankful_ for easy-going California fashion before.

And then she tugs on his hair, licking up his mouth, and he could care less about what she’s wearing. It isn’t gonna matter in two minutes. Maybe five.

He can’t remember how long Rebecca likes foreplay to last. More to the point, he can’t remember how to form words to ask. But, knowing Rebecca, she’ll take the lead. He palms at her chest over her dress and she removes one hand from his hair to grasp his wrist. He stops for a moment. Pulls everything away, concerned.

“What?” 

She sees his face and deters his concern with a kiss. And then she moves his hand to her breast, shepherds his palm to cup the skin. Greg doesn’t need any more instruction. He remembers what Bonnie and Clyde like, and by extension, what Rebecca likes: Soft foreplay, hard fucking.

She mews a little as his thumb snags on her nipple, dipping under the fabric of her bra,  and returns the favor, working on his belt. Slowly, teasing, and agonizing considering the pressure building up under his stomach.  

Rebecca’s got his belt open and is working on his fly, palming at his erection with an agonizingly slow pace. Greg can’t help but grunt, loud and hapless, and attempt to return the favor by lipping her neck and using both his hands to rub slow circles on her chest, letting one droop down to tease at the hem of her dress.

He flings it up over her head, and she breaks from him to aid in the disrobing. When it comes flying over her head, her hair’s mussed up, her makeup is smudged in eight different directions, her underwear doesn’t match, and God, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Hang on,” She says, breaking away from his mouth and sliding off the desk, leaving him stranded in the middle of her office like it’s the Bermuda Triangle. She tugs on the mini-blinds over the glass walls of her office. Greg gets the idea, and as she crosses to close the blinds facing the street,  he pulls Rebecca close again, biting her lip in the same place she had.

She tugs on the back of his shirt. “Mm, you know there are more people on the street than in the office.”

Greg’s surprised by the whole octave his voice dropped. Surprised, but grateful. “Doesn’t matter.”

Rebecca croons between kisses. “Exhibitionism.” She says, sighing as Greg runs a finger over the fabric of her underwear. And it’s not _at all_ an ego boost to find her drenched. “That’s new.”

He chortles, deep in his throat. “Something’s gotta be.”

She pulls him in close enough that he’s pressing into the inside of her thigh. “What else?”

“I don’t think you can handle it,” Greg says between kisses.

And Rebecca punctuates her statement with a bite to his lip that brings trembles down his spine and thrusts his cock to full attention.

“Try me.”

And he does.

Three times on her desk. Once in her bed.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Because this is Rebecca and Greg, and because some old habits die harder than others, it’s essentially three days of this. But unlike three years ago, they end up at Greg’s place.  And, unlike three years ago, they hang around afterwards. Rebecca can dig that, holding a mug of warm coffee in both her hands while Greg shuffles over to sit next to her on the sofa, still shaking the yawn out of his skull.

"You know," Rebecca says. "You might just sleep harder than anyone I've ever met."

And Greg seems a little too groggy to really know what he's saying, but it's not like Rebecca knows the inner workings of his mind, but nevertheless he groans and lifts his own mug to his lips. He takes an exaggerated slurp of the java before mumbling, "'s my gift."

He's never been eloquent when he's sleepy, but this might just be a new low and Rebecca can't help but laugh. Low or not, new is nice. New is good. But, the grogginess isn't great on the conversational front. So she says, "My kingdom for your ability to talk. Here, I'll make another pot of coffee."

Most days, they average one pot of coffee between them. One pot of coffee a morning, if they're at Greg’s. Two if they're at Rebecca's, since they're sharing between four people. So after two months, Rebecca figures they're on about their 90th pot of coffee, and, well, things are still going pretty good. Sometimes they argue. Sometimes Greg gets a little too easily annoyed when his commute between West Covina or Monterey Park lasted longer or traffic was particularly bad. Sometimes Rebecca has to admit she's been absorbed in her own shit. Sometimes Greg does his thing where his sarcastic or brusque replies go too far. But those moments don't add up, at least not like they used to.

The moments that do add up, really, are moments like the ones where they're walking around at that one park with fingers intertwined. Like that’s just as much them as the yo-yoing and the screwing.

Like ranting about work and whatever kind of misadventures overtook either one of them. Like shoving around for kitchen space and frantically trying to get ready on the mornings they oversleep and barely even have time to say, “See you for dinner.”

It's scary and adult-y and thank God they have moments with dishwater fights and badly serenading the cat Greg got after a month, to remind Rebecca that it doesn't have to be overwhelming. It doesn't have to be serious, not all the time.

Even if, sometimes, it's more serious than Rebecca would like. Sure, she's grown up a lot in the past three years, but that doesn't mean she's a master at it, even now.

But that isn't to say that these calm, more grown up situations are inherently bad.

Like, take the time August rolls around. They're on the couch at Rebecca's place, looking at the iPad, for a place that's reasonably close to both of their works. It's four months into their new relationship, but if you add up all the times before, it's probably more like eight months. Which is kind of funny, that if you combine all the times they've been Rebecca And Greg, like, as a couple, they'd almost be a fully formed baby. But, either way, they spend more time at one another's apartments than alone, so it makes sense. Besides, V and Heather are starting to not-so-subtly hint that they think it's time for Rebecca to fly the coop. In only the sweetest, nicest ways. Of course. Obviously.

But anyway, she's sitting next to Greg and they're trying to find a street or an apartment about an equal distance from Whitefeather and from L.A. They're pouring over ideas. Rebecca's thinking about what bright colors they could paint living spaces.

"Wait. Go back. This one has an indoor firepit!"

Greg presses his lips together. "When would we use that?"

"Y'know." Rebecca shrugs. "For s'mores."

Scrolling up briefly, although he doesn't seem to carry any curiosity in his expression, Greg points to the projected  monthly rent. "Yeah, that's not realistic."

Rebecca pouts. It's overly dramatic when she crosses her arms but it still wins her the small favor apartment that catches her eye. A nice white-brick one with a giant fountain glimering in the photo. It's just...so pretty. “What about this one?”

Greg gets this funny look on his face, and he scrolls up to the top banner of the real estate when Greg presses his lips on her scalp. She wraps her hand around his bicep, and points to the next website. That's when Greg asks, “Hey. Why don’t we look for something other than an apartment?”

Rebecca draws a quizzical frown. "You wanna, like, rent a house?"

"Or," Greg says, and his voice is deep and serious in a way that used to scare her shitless. "We could buy one."

The first thing to shoot into Rebecca's mind is, _Wait, what?_

However, the first thing out of her mouth is, "Wait, what?"  

The musical number is firing in her brain again. Another Fred and Ginger number, obviously, black and white with a big bandstand in the background. A reprise of a former number on a grander scale.

Hey, it's rare, but it happens.

Greg's waiting for her answer, and it's probably best for Rebecca to answer, but she doesn't want to until the tap break is done.

Honestly, this is moving fast. Faster than Rebecca would’ve foreseen in any other iteration of Them, but it...it works. It fits. It makes sense.

And, more to the point, it's an idea that makes her smile. A big goofy grin that she's sure looks absolutely ridiculous, but she's past the point of caring.

Except, of course, for one specific detail.

"You know it takes, like, thirty years to pay off a house, right?"

And Greg shrugs. It’s a little overly nonchalant in a laughably transparent way. "Think you can put up with me that long, Bunch?"

It's as close to romantic as he gets, and as much as she'd like something epic with birds singing, there's something magic in its simplicity. And so, she smiles and says, "I'll do my best."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


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